


Like Ice

by ShyThrush



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types, Wiedźmin | The Witcher Series - Andrzej Sapkowski
Genre: Basically just shameless whump, Blaviken, Blood and Injury, Emotional Whump, Emotionally Constipated Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Essi And Geralt don't really fall in love but they kind of do so I had to tag it as such, Essi Daven is an amazing character and I had to write with her, F/M, Fever, Gen, Geralt gets his trip to the coast and it's crummy, Geralt thinks he's a monster, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Has Feelings, Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia Whump, Hurt Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Hurt/Comfort, Injury, Insecure Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Lots of rain, Monster of the Week, Ocean, Picture the cliffs from Broadchurch, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Protective Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Sailing, Sea witches, Serious Injuries, Sick Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia, Some book elements but if you haven't read em you'll be okay, Sort Of, and he's hurting so bad after Blaviken, and it's really messing him up, cliffs, monster hunting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-29
Updated: 2020-06-24
Packaged: 2021-03-02 22:07:10
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 5
Words: 39,267
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24444052
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShyThrush/pseuds/ShyThrush
Summary: Geralt has just completed his Trials and left Kaer Morhen on the Path for the first time when tragedy strikes in Blaviken. Thinking the world has no use for him beyond being a tool to keep them safe, Geralt travels down the coast, looking for work and trying to bury the hurt he feels after what happened in Blaviken. He winds up taking on a contract in the fishing village of Isa, where he is helped by Essi Daven, a musician and enigma, and her brother Ered. When the contract goes wrong, he will find himself relying on others when all the stories he has been telling himself say he cannot rely on anyone, lest he put them in harm's way again.----OR I love the story in Sword of Destiny with Essi Daven so much that I had to write a fic with her in it. It's not really romance, just a young Geralt learning to trust in himself and others after Blaviken. Even if you haven't read the books, it's fairly self-explanatory.
Relationships: Essi Daven/Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia
Comments: 48
Kudos: 74





	1. Rain

**Author's Note:**

> So I promised a new longer work, and I have delivered! While I know many of you are fans of the Jaskier and Geralt relationship dynamic, I found myself wanting to branch out and try something new, so I present this (Geralt is still very young here and hasn't met Jaskier yet). I am royally bad at summaries, but I hope you all enjoy reading as much as I've enjoyed writing. Updates will happening with (hopefully) some decent regularity, and you may expect much whump and trust building. Also, don't worry if you haven't read the books, it should still be fairly easy to understand as everything is explained here. Enjoy!!

The air was frozen, and the rain that fell from the sky was transformed during its descent from water into balls of ice, so hard and frozen that when they made impact with Geralt’s head they burned and ached, fiery in the way that only freezing cold can be. His cloak was ripped and torn, no longer serviceable beyond being torn up to make bandages, although Geralt had not even had the energy to do that the last couple of days. It had been weeks since his last contract, weeks since he had had coin to buy food, let alone new clothes to replace the ones ripped by rain and use. And while it was true Witchers could go on for a long time without food or warmth, the lack of anything to eat beyond a meagre few pieces of rotten bread he had found in an abandoned cottage was beginning to take its toll. On top of that, the freezing rain that had relentlessly pounded the coast for days, although it had at first been no more than an annoyance, was now making Geralt begin to shiver and tremble in nothing more than his black shirt and leather armour. The lack of contracts for Witchers inland had driven him to the coast, a place which he had hoped to avoid due to the simple fact that he hated the water (the Trials had that effect on many boys). However, he was desperate, and the general consensus among Witchers that water was a place to be avoided at all costs would hopefully lead to a greater yield of contracts in the coastal fishing villages. 

Miserably, he urged Roach on, trying to ignore the way her flesh was trembling just as badly, if not worse, than Geralt’s own. The two of them leaned into the wind, which blew down Geralt’s throat and pushed any exhalations he tried to release back down into his lungs, leaving him breathless. Below, the waves crashed and pounded up against the base of the sharp cliff along which the coastal road ran. Seagulls wheeled and called in the night air, undeterred by the winds pushing them to and fro like so many leaves. The sparse grass, the only form of plant that could survive in such a remote and unforgiving location, rubbed together sharply in the wind as well, a sound that could only be caught by Geralt’s enhanced hearing. The air smelled of a nauseating combination of seawater and dead fish. And still, there were no lights in the distance, no fishing villages approaching, nothing. Just empty road and miserable wind for miles and miles, with night already upon them. Sighing frustratedly and trying to choke down a burgeoning cough (it was just the wind, making his throat dry), Geralt realized that he would not find any better or more sheltered places to camp tonight. It was stop here or ride on through the night, something which his exhausted body would no longer permit. 

“I’m sorry, Roach,” he muttered, although he doubted she could hear him over the howling wind and crashing waves, “We’d best make camp here tonight. At least I still have some oats for you.”

Geralt leapt off her back, grunting slightly when knees sore from days of sitting in the saddle came jarred as his feet landed on the ground. He nearly keeled over from the stiffness in his joints before he steadied himself on Roach’s neck, patting her softly by way of a thank you. He hauled what meagre possessions travelled with him from town to town out of the saddlebags, removed Roach’s saddle and bridle, and went about making camp as quickly as possible. He realized that no matter what he did, tonight was going to be uncomfortable. There was no dirt along the high cliffs to soften the rocks that dug through Geralt’s bedroll, and the wind and rain howled and thundered. Geralt tried his best to rub Roach down and covered her with a threadbare horse blanket, one of the few things that had lasted since he had set out from Kaer Morhen.

Sighing miserably, Geralt drew his only other blanket around his shoulders, which were trembling a bit from the cold. Normally, Witchers weren’t bothered by the weather, but Geralt had been freezing cold for days. He couldn’t feel his fingers or toes, and there was too much rain pouring down to even consider lighting a fire to keep warm. Without any food, Geralt supposed there was nothing to do but try and get some rest, in the sheer hope that perhaps the rain would have abated slightly by tomorrow morning. He curled up tightly on his bedroll, muttered a brief goodnight to Roach, although he doubted she heard it over the howling wind and desolate pounding of the waves, and tried to get some rest. 

\----

The morning, thankfully, dawned clear and bright, with only scudding, dark clouds in the distance and the strong scent of rain on the wet dirt the only reminders of the gale that had so rocked the previous night’s serenity. Unfortunately, it also dawned on a campsite that had seen no rest. Geralt had spent most of the night tossing and turning in the cold, and by the time the rain had abated he found he was too awake to even consider trying to get some rest. A sleepless night often led to a rallying burst of energy for him, a few hours where he felt well-rested, almost euphoric, before he would slump in the saddle again, sometimes leaning on Roach’s neck, begging his body to let him sleep. Thus had been the pattern for the last several days, and clearly Geralt’s body had no plans to break that pattern now. With an aching groan as his cold, stiff muscles stretched out, Geralt rubbed at his tired eyes with the heel of his hand, and wrung the excess water out of his half-braid.

“Morning, Roach,” he muttered tiredly, voice scratchy from the night, even though he had not slept, “You get any more rest?”

She puffed out her breath sympathetically, sharing in her master’s pain. Clearly, the rain had disturbed both their rests.

“Hopefully we find a village tonight, eh? Somewhere warm and dry where we can sleep before we fulfill a contract? Maybe some apples?”

Geralt found his mouth watering at the mere thought of apples, let alone the other delights one often found at inns. He would have gladly fought his way through a small army for a bowl of hearty stew, full of meat and vegetables and potatoes. It felt like an age since he had had anything even warm to eat, and for several moments he allowed himself to be transported by the fantastical feast his mind conjured up; one that involved at least three bowls of stew, warm, fresh-baked bread, and enough ale to leave him feeling pleasantly warm inside and out. Invigorated by the thought, even though Geralt knew well enough it could be days yet before he got a proper meal if he failed to find a village, the Witcher saddled Roach, who looked wet and indignant, packed up camp, and continued along the coast, resigning himself to another day alone, cold and hungry on the road. 

He had not been riding long, however, when he came across a merchant travelling in the opposite direction, his cart empty but full of sacks as though he had just come from a market. Geralt felt a surge of hope; a lone merchant would never travel too far from a town without an escort of some sort, so there must be a settlement nearby. He raised a gloved hand in greeting, and the merchant returned it, clucking to his team and trotting them over to ride abreast with Roach.

“Blessings to you, traveller! What brings you from the North, ’tis a long way to travel from the nearest settlement in that way, especially so close to winter.” The merchant was a jolly-looking man, of about fifty, and very red and ruddy in the face, speaking to a life spent more on the sea than on land. His hands were enormous, and scarred, making the reins he held look no bigger than strings. His accent was strange, although Geralt supposed he had never been this close to the coast before, and thus had had no real expectation of how they might speak.

“The same to you,” he responded, trying to keep the pure exhaustion hidden from his voice, “I’ve come from Blaviken, just past Roggveen, in search of work, but I haven’t had any success in finding a village, let alone one that might be in need of my services.”

Geralt hoped the man wouldn’t notice the way that he skirted around what his actual profession was. Saying he was a Witcher newly come from Blaviken in the same sentence might raise the alarm, even now that he had ventured into Redania. Luckily, the merchant paid his oversight no mind, not even bothering to ask what services he could provide.

“You’re in luck, traveller, the village of Isa is a four hour ride South of here, sticking to the coastal road. Big enough to have a tavern where you can find shelter for the night, and offering more than enough work, especially now that they’re harvesting fish for the final markets before winter. I’d show you the way, but I’m trying to reach Denesle by nightfall, to collect goods to trade on the coast.”

Geralt found himself nearly nodding off during the merchant’s short bout of exposition, only coming back to himself when he felt the man’s enormous, calloused hand shaking his shoulder roughly.

“Say, traveller, you look unwell,” the merchant seemed unfazed as he peered into Geralt’s strange eyes, which were a deterrent to most people, “The least I can do is send you on your way with some hot food. Stop with me for lunch? There’s a good place used by merchants a way down the road where we can build a fire.”

Every fibre in Geralt’s body screamed at him to take the kindly merchant up on his offer; after all, the man had seen his eyes and not so much as flinched, so rumours about what had happened at Blaviken and who had been involved must not have reached this far South as of yet. And yet, he was a monster. The Butcher of Blaviken, the Witcher who could not find work as much because of his brutal reputation as because there were fewer and fewer monsters in these parts to kill. Uncontrollable, untameable. A liability, more likely to cause harm than do good. He couldn’t get involved with someone else, couldn’t accept someone else’s offer of help, no matter how menial. It would only cause harm. So, even as his stomach turned and groaned at the mere thought of a hot meal, Geralt turned away and shook his head.

“My thanks for your offer, but I should be getting on to reach the town before nightfall. I’d like to find a room at the inn before it’s filled up.” Geralt decided not to mention that with no coin in his pockets, he would likely be sleeping in the streets or a ditch outside Isa.

The merchant shrugged his broad shoulder and scrubbed a massive hand through his yellowy-white hair.

“Have it your way, but I wouldn’t stay out here another night; there looks to be another storm coming in,” the man gestured off to the West, where a bank of clouds was forming above the sea, “You look like you could do with a few nights’ rest out of the elements, if you can.”

Geralt couldn’t have agreed more, but unfortunately his wants and needs almost always fell to the wayside, especially when he was short on coin. Bidding the merchant farewell, Geralt urged Roach into a fast canter, letting the rhythm of her gait soothe him almost asleep, rocking in the saddle in a manner that was second nature to him and required no effort. He had long ago stopped feeling the ache in his heels and ankles, and the throbbing ache in his muscles from riding was so familiar by now that it was comforting. Perhaps spending a night outside wouldn’t be so bad. After all, the rain had stopped, and he only felt exhausted now, not frozen.

He was, however, incredibly grateful when he caught a whiff of smoke in the distance, a sure sign he was approaching Isa, or at least a small settlement. Geralt had long ago lost track of how much time had passed since he bid the merchant farewell on the road. He felt exhaustion down to his bones, seeping through his flesh and making his hands feel weak and shaky. Briefly, Geralt considered simply slumping down on Roach’s neck and closing his eyes, but he knew he would not be able to rest. Instead, Geralt watched the barren landscape pass by, from the brittle grass that whisked by quickly under Roach’s hooves to the seemingly immovable skyline, the endless, rippling ocean that reached all the way to the foreboding bank of clouds in the far West. He could see a wispy curtain of rain underneath the dark clouds, blown slightly sideways, and, from this distance, almost beautiful. It reminded him of a cloak he had worn one winter at Kaer Morhen before his Trials, soft and grey and easy on his skin. Geralt shivered softly. What he wouldn’t give to have that cloak now.

\----

When the storm did come, it was nothing like the cloak. It was not soft or gentle, as it had looked from a distance. Geralt reflected that his brain must truly be addled from sleeplessness to have ever even considered that a rainstorm had looked gentle or inviting or soft. Perhaps he was just becoming weak. Either way, whatever romantic notions his brain had entertained about the storm were gone now, as he leaned into the wind, peering through a curtain of silver hair made dark by water that was currently plastered to his face. He could see the lights of Isa in the distance, the scudding clouds having made the sky so dark it was more night than day, even though it had to be late afternoon, at most. 

“Just a little further, Roach,” he encouraged, aware he was pushing her far harder than he wanted to after days of cold and only oats to eat. He made a silent vow to himself to buy her some apples at his earliest convenience; the pace and the conditions they had been riding in would have killed a lesser horse.

When they finally rode under the gate to Isa, which was, in truth, more of a city than a village, Geralt breathed a whistling sigh of relief. Normally, he would have cringed at the noises that crowded the streets, tried to avoid it at all costs, but this night the warmth from the torches and the scent of food was intoxicating. He was so tired his chin bounced against his chest as he allowed Roach to find her way through the narrow streets, between two-storey houses that looked like something out of a fairytale with their window boxes and gabled roofs. The cobbles were clean, a rarity, and the scent of cooking food and burning fires overpowered the smell of shit that normally found itself in a miasma over every city street and alley. Geralt blearily reflected that this place seemed rich, and that he would be able to make good coin here, should he find the villagers had need of him. 

Roach stopped suddenly outside the doors of a tavern, jolting Geralt from his stupor so suddenly he almost fell out of the saddle. Patting her gently on the neck and offering his thanks for her excellent way finding skills, the Witcher slid down to the ground, wincing yet again as his sore body adjusted to the new position. The rain was still pounding down, and thunder and lightening filled the sky and air with a heaviness. He wanted nothing more than to get inside, somewhere warm, and to drink a warm mug of cider before curling up in a warm bed. However, it was late, and he had not had time nor energy to check if there was a notice posted in Isa searching for a Witcher. He couldn’t bargain for a room on the promise of a completed contract if there was no contract to be completed. Opening his purse, he poked tiredly through the few gold and silver coins left there. Enough for a room for one night, but not for any food. Feeling slightly miserable at the thought of giving up the hot meal he had so been looking forwards to, Geralt led Roach to the stable and removed her saddlebags. Normally he would have left the stableboy with some threats should he not take good care of his mare, especially after the difficult journey they had had. Tonight, though, he was too exhausted, instead slipping the young, wide-eyed boy a piece of silver for his trouble and limping exhaustedly towards the door. In the distance, the thunder and the waves still crashed in tandem, the heartbeat of the night in an otherwise still town.

Inside the inn, there was very little noise, uncharacteristic for a town of this size, at this time in the evening. Most patrons were huddled together, speaking in low tones, or drinking alone, piles of tankards dripping leftover foam and amber liquid onto the floor. No one so much as looked up when Geralt entered, and the barkeep was so preoccupied with polishing glasses that Geralt had to clear his throat several times before the man looked up. He was decidedly exotic looking, not one of the fishing people of the coast, known for their characteristically dark skin. His skin was fair, more pink than olive, and his close cropped hair and beard were the colour of wheat in the fall. His brilliant blue eyes where what set him apart the most; they sparkled in a wise way that suggested there was much more to him than being a barkeep in a coastal village. He offered Geralt a grim smile, the first acknowledgement the Witcher had received since entering Isa.

“Room for tonight?” He asked, in a voice that was curiously melodic. It reminded Geralt of what he had learnt about mermaids at Kaer Morhen, how they had adapted the Elder Speech into a specific variety of tones and cadences that made it more like singing than speaking. If Geralt had ever imagined that form of Elder Speech, he suspected it must be similar to the lilting way in which this foreigner talked. 

“Please. I’m a Witcher, looking for work here. You know of any contracts I may be able to pick up?”

The low, hushed buzz of conversation that had previously occupied the inn abruptly stopped, and, as one, the various patrons all looked up. Geralt suppressed a shiver. It was eerie, as though they had been listening the whole time, waiting for him to say exactly what he had said. The barkeep, however, brightened considerably as he went in search of a key.

“I suspect the alderman will be able to speak to you at great length about the troubles that have been plaguing Isa,” he stated, as the conversation in the room returned to normal, “We’ve come on hard times from some slighted sea witches down in the bay, stealing our pearls and our fish, and killing fishermen. Everyone is afraid to go anywhere near the ocean now, and our trade is suffering considerably. We’ve been waiting for a Witcher to come this way for months now.”

Geralt felt a strange combination of relief and an overwhelming exhaustion curling in his gut. He wanted this contract. He needed this contract, if he wanted to buy a new cloak and coat and not succumb to illness from the cold (it was true Witchers were very hard to kill, but not impossible, even when it came to infectious diseases). However, he was so very tired, and cold, and since his trials saltwater had repulsed him. It was part of walking The Path to do what was required of him, though. And this contract held the promise of no difficult choices, no murderous encounters. No choices between greater and lesser evils. Geralt had had enough of those to last him a lifetime. 

“I’ll speak to him tomorrow.”

The fair man nodded, and then called for someone named Essi through a small door that presumably led to the back of the inn.

“Bring this man a hot bath and some food, as a gift to thank him for stopping in Isa.”

Geralt opened his mouth to protest, but the man waved away his open mouth with a hand that was too delicate and thin to be used to the rough work of a barkeep. A small woman, so small that at first Geralt mistook her for a girl, appeared from the door. There was no doubt that this woman, who was no more than twenty, was the daughter of the barkeep. She was so small and willowy she almost looked frail, but there was a strength and resolve behind her eyes, which were deeper and more wise even than her father’s. She wore her pale hair so that it nearly covered those eyes, but it did nothing to diminish the force of her character as she gestured for Geralt to go upstairs, clearly intending to follow, and offered him a small, welcoming smile. Not the smile of a whore, but one that was genuinely caring. Geralt searched for words, for something to say to her, but drew an enigmatic blank, and settled simply for nodding and drawing his hood further down over his eyes. He didn’t want to be cruel, but he couldn’t afford to return her friendliness. Not after the last woman who had shown him any kind of kindness had ended up dead by his hand. 

\----

Half an hour later, Geralt was cleaner than he had been in months, and full of the first real meal he had eaten in probably two weeks. He even had a clean bed, with real blankets, and four walls and a roof to keep out the storm that was still howling outside. The inn was stone-walled, one of the first such places Geralt had stayed at since leaving Kaer Morhen, and it didn’t even creak and groan when the gale-force wind howled around it. However, even with his situation considerably improved, Geralt couldn’t sleep. He lay in bed, staring at the wall, his mind racing from one thought to the next like a bumblebee from flowers, his heart pounding and sick feeling in his stomach. There was a deep anxiety that pulled at his gut, twisting it and tying his whole body in knots of worry. He knew it was ridiculous to still feel this uncomfortable about saltwater almost a year after he had survived the Trial of the Grasses. But every time he thought about submerging himself in it, about the way it had burned at his eyes and his lungs and the numerous cuts and sickly wounds all over his body, his breath hitched in his chest and his heart rate increased significantly. The worst part was he couldn’t even convince himself it was a purely physical reaction; he was able to control his heart rate in all except the most grievous of situations. Geralt had tried closing his eyes, tried meditating, even tried channelling what he knew Vesemir would say, about Witchers being unable to have any weaknesses, and that in order to purge yourself of weakness you had to face it head-on. Finally, he resigned himself to another sleepless night, and flopped on his back, using a dagger to clean under his fingernails. The inn had gone quiet downstairs, and the only sounds Geralt could pick up on over the howling of the wind and the pattering of the rain were the soft footsteps on men going about their business in their various rooms. 

Then, during a brief and rare break in the gale, Geralt picked up on another noise, drifting up from downstairs. It was soft music, the sound of a lute being strummed and a sweet voice accompanying it. This was strange to the Witcher, since he had not seen nor heard any bards at the inn, and he had never known a bard (although he had not known many, and none very well) who would pass up an opportunity to play for a crowd, no matter how small. He lay for a while, trying to recognize the tune, but quickly gave up. He generally harboured an attitude of indifference on the subject of music. It was not something that could be put to any practical use, and he found its disciples to generally be the sort of people who were enamoured by the complications of human relationships, which was not a subject that interested him in the slightest. However, as the music went on, Geralt found himself enjoying it considerably more than he had previously. It was not a bawdy drinking song, nor was it a love ballad, and the chords did not grate at his sensitive ears. In fact, whoever was playing was not singing at all, just humming a simple harmony along with the notes.

Eventually, for the simple reason that he had nothing better to do, and several hours to kill before the alderman would likely be speaking to anyone, Geralt decided to try to seek out the musician, if simply to offer his compliments. He was aware this was not a usual reaction for him, but listening had made him feel more rested than he had in weeks, and he thought that the player at least deserved a few coppers for their trouble. Pulling his aching, tired body out of bed and stifling a dry cough in the crook of his arm, he opened the door and ventured downstairs, finding his way perfectly fine even though all the candles had long since been blown out. 

When he arrived in the commons of the inn, he saw a single candle lit on a table near the dying embers of the fire, where a person in a dyed blue dress was sitting cross-legged on top of one of the tables. Geralt recognized her instantly as Essi, the woman who had brought him the bath earlier, who had offered him such a sweet smile. Upon realizing it was her, the Witcher almost turned to go. He shouldn’t, couldn’t, get involved in the intricacies of human interactions, and this woman smelled of nothing but complication. However, he had resolved to thank her for her playing, if nothing else, so he took the last few coppers from his purse and approached her quietly. She had peaceful smile on her face that seemed almost sacred to Geralt, and he was loath to disturb her. Perhaps it would be best for everyone to simply leave the coppers next to her on the table and retreat quietly back up the stairs.

He was sliding the coins across the table when suddenly, Geralt’s breath hitched and he coughed roughly again (clearly the sea air and having spent days outside without a cloak had caused some irritation in his lungs). Essi jumped violently and rounded on him, hand raised like she was about to slap him across the face before she realized what he was doing and lowered it, although she still looked wary, and she was clearly feeling for a knife hidden in one of her tall calfskin boots. Geralt’s respect for her increased, although he supposed working in a tavern taught women to fear all men. He had seen how men behaved like beasts after they had availed themselves of a few tankards of ale. 

“I’m sorry,” he apologized softly, not desiring a knife in the gut on top of everything else, “I had hoped to leave these for you. You…play well.”

Geralt was very glad that the ability to blush had been taken from him during his Trials, because he was currently rivalling an ox in eloquence, and felt profoundly stupid. Essi’s clear blue eyes flashed a little, and she looked angry, but quickly rearranged her features into a small smile.

“I don’t play for money, or to please anyone but myself,” she said, rather tartly, although the smile remained fixed on her lips, “But you have my thanks all the same.”

She slid the coins back across the table towards him, leaving Geralt wondering if he would offend her more by pushing them back towards her or by taking them. Eventually, he settled on taking them and dropping them in the empty tankard which was still left out on the bar, clearly where Essi’s father took tips from satisfied customers. He considered rejoining her at the table, to ask what she was doing up so late, but when he turned around again, she had vanished, leaving him deeply unsettled that he had not heard her go.

\----

The following morning, Geralt awoke, which took him by surprise simply because it had been weeks since he had awoken instead of simply roused himself reluctantly from an uneasy doze. He did not feel nearly as rested as he would have preferred before seeking out a contract, and there was a deepening ache in his bones, as well as a cough that had developed quite an impressive bit of mucous overnight, but overall he felt more rested than he had in weeks. Besides, he tried to reason with himself, it was nigh on impossible for a Witcher to catch an infectious disease. In order for that to happen, he would have had to work himself practically into the ground. The cough must simply be residual, his lungs becoming accustomed to the moist sea air, the likes of which he had not breathed since his Trials. 

Stretching away the aches and pains as best he could, Geralt descended the staircase into the main room of the inn. He glanced about briefly; a few guests were eating breakfast, several more were deep in their cups. Someone had swept the floor early this morning, and the whole placed smelled pleasantly of wood shavings and fried bacon. The pale barkeep was behind the bar, chatting merrily with a tall, dark-haired, wild looking man wearing the traditional garb of a fisherman. When the Witcher approached them to ask directions to the alderman’s house, the tall fisherman invited to accompany him there, and brightened considerably when Geralt told him he was a Witcher looking for work. The dark fisherman called for Essi, who appeared from the back of the inn, and offered her accompaniment to the market with much blushing and stammering over his words. This made Geralt feel moderately better, at least he had not made such a fool of himself as this man was. Essi declined in a pleasant but distant manner, and just as Geralt was about to turn and follow the fisherman out into the street, he felt a tiny hand wind around his forearm with surprising strength. He turned, about to knock the hand away, and found Essi beckoning to him urgently. She pulled him into an alcove under the stairs.

“Be careful out there,” she whispered urgently, her blue eyes flashing, “I don’t know how much my father told you, but it’s not safe, not for anyone. I’ve been out on the boats with the fishermen, I’ve seen the sea witches. They’re…different. They have magic I’ve never seen before, and Devos, the alderman, is too frightened of cutting off our trade to acknowledge how dangerous they really are. I honestly believe he would kill anyone who tried to tell the people of Isa how much danger they’re actually in. So if you’re going to hunt them, be careful of more than just the witches. There are powerful men here, who will kill for Devos without hesitation. If you want safe passage to the bottoms of the cliff, my brother and I have a schooner in the harbour, we’ll show you the way and make sure none of the fishermen try to meddle where they’re not needed.”

Geralt nodded, feeling the same deep sense of foreboding that he had felt in Blaviken; that this was a situation in which it would be far too easy for him to dive in far too deep to extricate himself from it easily. However, none of this was Essi’s concern, and he did not want to pull her in to any conflict she was no involved again. Giving her hand a rough shake, as he would a man (he was unsure what else to do to send her on her way), he turned, adjusted his swords on his shoulders, and followed the fisherman outside into the bustling streets of Isa. 

\----

The alderman was, by far, one of the most unpleasant men Geralt had encountered since leaving Kaer Morhen. He was morbidly fat, and the Witcher briefly entertained the thought that if he stood up, his gut would probably drag on the floor. He was surrounded by food, which he consumed in a disgusting manner with his bare fingers, the juices dribbling down his chin. There was a crusted-over bit of beer foam coating his top lip, which jiggled like a horse’s every time he spoke. And, unfortunately, he had heard the rumours of Blaviken, although clearly not in their entirety, because he did not connect Geralt’s distinctive appearance to the incident. Yet. 

The scent of the whole room was so overwhelming to Geralt’s sensitive nose he could hardly stand to stay there, and the incense from several candles burning along the walls had almost caused him to burst out into wet coughs several times. The alderman droned on, seemingly completely unaware of his discomfort. 

“Please explain to me,” he began, in a voice that Geralt could only describe as flat, “Why in all the glorious heavens I would want to have Isa involved with a Witcher, so soon after the mess that happened in Blaviken? That bastard destroyed the town’s trade, people are frightened to go within ten miles of the place. The local farmers, I hear, are making evil eyes to ward away the bad spirits they believe inhabit the town and brought bad fortune. If that were to happen here, our economy would be destroyed, our town in ruins. I believe we can defend ourselves from a couple of sea witches without the help of some mutant bastard.”

Geralt had to physically restrain himself from laying his hand across his sword hilt and speaking some choice words to Devos, who looked like he wouldn’t even be able to stand without someone else’s help, mutant bastard or otherwise. 

“Witchers do not frequent the coast,” he said tightly, “This will probably be your only chance to be rid of the witches. I heard they laid waste to several boats and killed some men. Surely that can’t be good for your town’s trade and reputation, either.”

Devos gurgled unpleasantly, and Geralt took the opportunity to cough wetly into his elbow, trying to keep the tremors that had begun running through his frame at bay. There was a fire burning in the hearth of the hall, but Geralt felt unpleasantly cold, although he chalked that up to still not being able to afford a cloak. Devos looked revolted.

“You aren’t even well,” he said scornfully, “Not only are you of the same ilk as the bastard that destroyed Blaviken, but you’re barely standing, probably suffering from some horrible mutant infection. And yet you still come here and offer your help? My answer is no. Get the fuck out of my sight, and Isa, and leave well enough alone. Go find someone else to tempt with your devilish ways. We’ll have none of it here.”

Geralt had the good graces to exit the hall with his dignity intact, before allowing his shoulders to slump and leaning back against the outside wall. He had no idea how far away the next town was, and, to be honest, he wasn’t sure even his body would hold up to another week travelling on the coastal road with no cloak and almost no food. If he wasn’t already ill, that would push him over the edge. But there was no point in complaining. That was the path, the way of life he had to walk. If he died, perhaps Roach would carry him back to Kaer Morhen to be buried with his fellow Witchers. Aware that Vesemir would have his hide for being dramatic instead of just getting on with things, Geralt pushed himself up off the wall, and was about to turn away when, for the second time that day, a hand closed around his arm. This time, the hand was large and hairy, And Geralt almost thumped its owner on the head before he recognized the dark-haired fisherman from earlier. 

“I saw what happened in there,” the man said lowly, with a voice that sounded like he had spent his formative years chewing on gravel, “Devos is a half-wittted bastard who wouldn’t know a sane idea if it bit him on his overlarge arse. There’s a group of us who’ve raised money to hire you on if he didn’t see sense.”

The man pulled a bag of coin from his belt and placed it in the Witcher’s hands. Geralt turned it over in amazement, this was as much money as he would make from killing a higher vampire, or a very large nest of kikimores.

“That’s an advance, you’ll receive the other half upon completion. These witches are destroying our livelihood, making the waters impossible to fish. Kill them, and we’ll do whatever we can to make it worth your while. Essi Daven and her brother Ered are waiting with their schooner in the harbour. Prepare yourself, and meet them down there at nightfall. They’ll ensure your safe passage to the cliffs where the witches live.”

“Thank you,” Geralt breathed, trying not to allow the cacophony of feelings to enter into his voice, remembering most people believed Witchers to be emotionless, “I’ll do everything I can to rid you of them.”

The fisherman nodded and lumbered off down the alley, leaving Geralt holding more coin than he had held in months, and feeling a strange combination of relief and trepidation for what was ahead of him. On one hand, he was incredibly relieved that he would not need to spend more nights on the road, looking for work. However, there was a cold seeping into his bones, and even though his brain stubbornly refused to admit he could be coming down with some human ailment, his body betrayed him. Fighting sea witches was not something Geralt had any experience with, and it would likely take all of his limited reserves. He only hoped he could survive and take payment, at least to buy Roach some apples for all her hard work before he went somewhere and expired from his wounds. 

Feeling morbid and deeply unsettled, Geralt set back off towards the inn, to prepare as best he could for what the night would bring.

\----

When Geralt arrived at the docks that night, he felt considerably worse than he had even in the afternoon. He was exhausted, and his cough was considerably more pronounced, each breath he took rattled in his chest and made him feel as though his lungs were on fire. At least, Geralt thought, he no longer required a cloak. There was a burgeoning fever that burned bright under his skin, heating him from the inside out in a way that was more unpleasant than what he had hoped for the first time feeling warm after several weeks in the cold. 

Essi and Ered Daven were waiting for him on the docks, wrapped in warm winter cloaks made of soft blue wool. Ered looked remarkably similar to his sister and father in that he also had the fair, foreign complexion of the people of the mountains, so out of place here by the sea. He carried a sword sheathed at his hip, which Geralt noted was of fine craftsmanship, a steel blade with a simple, leather-wrapped hilt, but one that was excellently forged and well cared for. Essi carried a small, wicked looking dagger in her belt, of Zerrikanian make, curved in the same shape as a small scythe. There was a small pearl embedded in the hilt. Geralt nodded at her by way of a greeting, and shook Ered’s small, almost elvish hand. 

“I’m Ered, and I believe you’ve already met Essi at the inn. We have a boat than can take you as far as the sea caves where the witches live, where we’ll leave you and return for you the following morning. If you need us before then, light a fire in one of the caves; we have fishermen who will be watching the coast.”

Geralt nodded his thanks, appreciating Ered’s quick, no-nonsense briefing of the situation, so different from aldermen more used to drinking and feasting than preparing for combat. He did not doubt that Ered had, at one point, been a military man, which made him only more curious about where these fair-haired foreigners had come from and how they had ended up in Isa. The Witcher did not trust himself to speak, however, what with the waves and the wind crashing in the background, and with his throat aching so fiercely he was not sure what noises would come out of it, if any at all. He contented himself simply to follow the two siblings down to the end of the dock, which rocked and swayed under his boots, breathing in the salty sea air which plastered itself against his unpleasantly hot face. He closed his eyes, and almost walked past Essi and Ered and off the end of the dock into the gently rolling sea. Essi’s small, glove-clad hand grabbed him by the arm and pulled him back, catching his eye for a moment with a concerned look as her brother proceeded to undo the knots and loops that secured a small sailboat to the dock.

“Are you alright?” She whispered, low enough that Ered would not be able to hear her over the pounding surf beyond the rock break that allowed the inlet to remain relatively calm, “You look like death warmed up, and you don’t even have a cloak with you. You do realize it’s almost winter, yes? Or are Witchers immune to the cold, as well?”

Geralt felt displeasure streaming off her in waves, but it was not the displeasure he was used to feeling from humans, with undertones of fear and hatred. Her displeasure was softer, warmer, it felt almost gentle in a way he was not entirely sure how to react to.

“I’m fine,” he returned roughly, his voice scraping in his throat like he had picked up a handful of sand from the beach and swallowed it in one gulp, “Not immune to the cold, but fine.”

Essi swung herself nimbly over the side of the small boat, which was rocking gently in the water as Ered prepared it for the voyage. She returned a few moments later with a wool cloak of the same fine make as hers and Ered’s.

“Here,” she stated in a tone that brooked no argument, “You may not want to admit it, but you don’t look well. If you’re going to rid Isa of these witches regardless, you might as well be warm while you’re doing it.”

Geralt took the soft blue cloak in his hands, marvelling at its warmth after several weeks of huddling under his shirt to keep warm. He wasn’t sure what to say; so unused was he to accepting favours from people other than his brothers. He felt numb, uncomfortable with the thought of being beholden to a strange woman who he could more easily hurt than help, even though he felt he at least owed her a thank you. However, when he finally looked up again, Essi had drawn her hood back up over her braided blonde hair, and swung herself easily into the boat, whose blue sails were now raised. She beckoned for him to follow, and, feeling clumsier than normal with his numb fingers and trembling frame, he followed her.

\----

The sea was rough as the three of them travelled along the coast, Essi and Ered working together like a well-oiled machine. Geralt found himself feeling distinctly out of his element, it was clear the two of them had sailed the boat together hundreds of times before, and the Witcher felt more like a large-unfortunate stone in the way than someone who could offer any sort of assistance. He spent most of his time sitting with an arm resting on the gunwale, watching the choppy seas distort the faint reflection of the small wooden boat. He tried to imagine all the types of creatures which must be swimming in the depths, so large and unfathomable most Witchers had barely begun to scratch the surface of cataloguing them. It was a chill night, and the spray of the sea stung Geralt’s cold cheeks. He imagined he was flushed, but out here, Essi and Ered were as well, and even Essi’s shrewd eyes would likely not catch the spots of colour blooming on his cheekbones. The misty night air filled his lungs, aching and chilled, and he fought hard not to give up the ruse and begin coughing. As it was, he took several breaths that hitched and almost gave him away as he choked into his arm, trying his best to make them sound like he was simply clearing his throat. The sea air was clearly not kind on whatever had taken up residence in his lungs, he thought frustratedly. 

After Geralt guessed they had been scudding across the sea for about an hour, keeping close to the cliffs, but still far enough back that they would not be dashed on the rocks, Essi approached him. 

“You alright?” She called over the crashing waves and calling birds.

Geralt just nodded, definitely not trusting his voice to hold up over all this racket. He felt a little better now he had a cloak, but mostly he just wanted to go back to the inn and collapse in his bed. Tremors wracked his frame, and it took most of his energy just to keep them from becoming apparent to the other two passengers on board the boat. He could hear Vesemir’s gravelly voice in his head even now, telling him that this was his body’s way of warning him, of telling him to turn back and look after it a bit. But what would he do if he turned back? Leave these people in danger of losing their livelihood and their lives? Lie on his back in an inn and rest? That was not what he was good at, not what he was made to do. Better, he thought hazily, to die doing the one thing he was good at than to spend days bringing further stigma on the innkeeper and his family from the alderman by continuing to stay with them while he rested. Besides, when he was not hunting, he was a liability. Someone who attracted danger and chaos and got innocent people killed. Blaviken had shown him that beyond any reasonable doubt. So yes, best to go on. If he lived, he would be able to collect the other half of his payment. Then he would have enough money to buy some medicines that would keep him going until he could get back to Kaer Morhen and rest. If he didn’t live, well, then he would take as many of those witches as he could with him. Perhaps leaving this world doing some good would make up for the hurt he had caused in Blaviken.

So engrossed was Geralt in his internal conflict that he began nodding off without really even realizing that was what he was doing. He awoke from his dazed stupor only when his head dipped so violently with the waves that it smacked into the gunwale. Rubbing it irritably, he looked up and saw the cliffs had increased in both steepness and sharpness quite significantly since their departure from Isa. They looked forbidding, like a giant row of teeth blotting out the feeble light from the stars twinkling in the sky. The waves smacked and crashed against them, And Geralt could see several places where there must have been tunnels from the sea floor up through the rocks, jetting enormous spouts of steaming water that looked like they came straight from the pits of Hell. If Geralt had believed in Hell, that is. 

Ered was bringing the schooner inland, swinging the mainsail around while Essi leaned against the rudder at the back. She nodded to him, though he suspected she couldn’t see more than a very vague outline of him against the backdrop of the night sky.

“We’ve arrived,” she called over the pounding surf, “Ered will bring us as far inland as he can, but you’ll have to swim the rest of the way.”

Geralt nodded tightly, not relishing the thought of swimming through what were probably near glacial waters when he could already feel his fever pounding through his flesh with renewed vigour. Essi approached him and laid a small hand on his shoulder.

“Are you sure you’re alright,” she murmured, now that she was closer, “I can see you trembling from the other side of the boat. It would be folly to try to kill those witches if there’s something wrong with you. We can stop on the headlands and try again tomorrow.”

“No. It’s just the potions,” Geralt flung back, stubbornly, hating that she could see through him, “This is what I’m good at. I’ll get it done.”

Essi gave him an impatient look that suggested he was not the first man she had tried to keep from going into a dangerous situation when he was not in good physical condition. However, she simply shrugged and walked back to the rudder.

“Have it your way, Witcher.”

Ered proceeded to drop a heavy iron anchor over the side of the boat, locking them in position long enough for Geralt to down some Cat and Tawny Owl, which sent warmth coursing through his trembling frame and false energy coursing through his veins. Invigorated, he adjusted his swords on his back and stepped up with one boot on the gunwale, holding on to an errant rope with the other to keep his balance.

“Fight well, Witcher,” Ered gave him a small salute, a very military gesture devoid of any emotion, just a simple sending off that seemed practiced, as though he had sent many men to their deaths in his short life. Geralt was almost tempted to hate him for it, hate him for the nobility of his bearing and for honourable deeds he must have done. Ered Daven was not a man who had ever butchered women in the crowded streets of a town, he was not a man who had ever fled a village bearing the title of murderer. And Essi, with the music in her voice, with the gaiety in her eyes that reminded him so much of Renfri, he hoped she would not send him off at all. He hoped she would refuse to care for him at all, refuse to become attached, because he was dangerous to her. 

However, she raised her hand in a soft farewell, wind whipping her straw-coloured braids around her face. She did not smile; her solemnity indicative that Ered was not the only one who had seen many soldiers off to battle in his day. He thought he heard her humming a low tune over the heaving sea, a melody he recognized from hearing it too many times in too many taverns. A melody that had played in the tavern in Blaviken the day before he had become a butcher, more beast than man.

Shuddering and swallowing against the ache in his throat that had as much to do with the illness pervading his senses as it did with the feeling that a ghost had just brushed him gently on the shoulder, whispering in his ear that she was cold, that she needed to be held, Geralt raised a hand in a small salute, returning the gesture more than attaching any meaning to it. Renfri’s voice whispered in the wind, in his ear, reminding him of who he was and of why Essi could never mean anything to him, of why he was destined to live and die alone.

He dove into the waves, pushing hard against the current to reach the black sand beach.


	2. Obsidian

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt is left at the beach firmly believing that he will die in this fight, knowing he is not in any state to win. Essi reflects on her relationship with her brother, and is determined to make good on old wrongs by helping in whatever way she can.

The water was more ice than liquid, and Geralt was so shocked when his body was fully submerged in it that he couldn’t move, couldn’t think. The ice in his veins left there from the fever was only exacerbated by the cold, and he ended up simply giving his body over to the tide and letting the waves wash him up towards the shore, not particularly caring where they took him so long as it was out, out of this frozen, crashing wasteland that rushed in his ears and made his head pound more than it already was. 

Eventually, the freezing waves became gentler, and Geralt felt the toes of his boots scraping against the sandy bottom of the ocean. The waves were more rhythmic now, pushing him gently against the sand, until eventually he got his hands underneath him and dragged his sodden body up onto the shore, coughing and hacking. A good amount of seawater he hadn’t even realized he had swallowed suddenly made a violent and unfortunate reappearance all over the soft, treacherous black sand of the beach. Geralt rested on his elbows for a moment, water still lapping at his boots, and tried to catch his breath. He even allowed his aching head a moment’s rest on the cool sand. Then, once his coughing had calmed somewhat (although he still had to swallow back choking and coughing on the fluid in his lungs with every breath), Geralt began the process of dragging his bedraggled body upright.

Looking around, Geralt began to understand why people, especially people of the coast, believed in Gods and monster deities. The tall, black cliffs shot straight out of the water, with barely any beach to act as a buffer. What beach there was was made purely out of evil-looking black sand which sunk treacherously under Geralt’s boots, as though it wanted to pull him back into the ocean. There were several tunnels within the cliff’s walls that apparently led to the sea, and with every crash of the waves there would emerge a great plume of misty water a few seconds later, keeping the beach constantly cold and drenched in a never-ending mist. Geralt knew he would have to be cautious in his ascent; any one of the caves could be tunnels leading straight to the sea, and the rest, he assumed, would lead straight to the sea witches of which the people of Isa were so afraid. There were some column-like structures made out of the black rock that ascended above the regular height of the cliff. From his limited knowledge and reading on sea witches, Geralt knew that liked to inhabit the highest locations they could find, similar to birds of prey. From there, it was easier to survey potential food sources, to hunt from afar without endangering themselves unless it was absolutely necessary. He gazed up at the spires and suppressed a shudder, sensing he was already being watched. Chills crept of his spine, from more than just the fever aching in his bones. Letting out as great a sigh as he could with his lungs fighting to keep from coughing with every breath, Geralt approached the cliff’s base. It was ragged and presented many sharp edges, an easy enough task for a Witcher to climb. However, the obsidian stone was sharp, and Geralt knew the likelihood of his hands coming out of the climb unscathed was slim. However, this was what he was made to do. He was made to be hurt and beaten and bruised and bloody so other people, righteous people with weak sword arms and real families, would not have to give up their lives. This was his meaning, his only meaning. 

Placing both hands against the obsidian wall, Geralt began his ascent, leaving the pounding surf far behind him. His heart beat in his ears in time to the motion of the sea, and there were constant tremors running through his flesh and bones. What would have normally been an easy climb was suddenly agony, what with his lungs feeling as though they couldn’t take in a whole breath without being on the verge of explosion. Almost absentmindedly, Geralt noticed that there was blood dripping down his wrists, and that his hands were lacerated from the sharp obsidian he was using as handholds. He was so detached from the pain that it was more curiosity that drove him to take his hands from the wall and probe at the deep cuts, so far down he could see his tendons working under the flesh. There was nothing to be done for it now; he had no bandages and the bleeding would likely cease when he reached the top and gave his hands time to rest. That was, if his healing was not too depleted by weeks’ worth of no rest. This was his task, he reminded himself, his only meaning and destiny. Good men like Ered could not be sacrificed for such menial duties. 

When Geralt finally reached the top of the cliff, his arms were so coated in blood that it had stiffened his shirt, making it crack and creak when he moved. He rolled over the edge of the cliff and just lay on his back for a moment, trying to brush away the concern at both how winded and cold he felt. Normally, a climb like this would have been downright easy, and definitely would not have left him out of breath. But now, the wind seemed to blow right to the back of his throat, drying up his mouth and stealing the breath from his lips. There was an unpleasant hitching feeling in his chest whenever he tried to draw a trembling breath. It made him feel as though he was constantly choking, and the sensation was as unfamiliar as it was unpleasant. However, he knew his time to rest was limited. His arms were coated in blood, and even though the sea witches were probably shored up in the spires, hunting from on high, it would only be a matter of time before the intoxicating smell reached their sensitive huntress’s nostrils. At least he would not have to climb any further. His bloodied body, probably reeking of exhaustion and illness, would give the impression of being an easy target. And that impression wouldn’t be entirely wrong.

Geralt lay for a long while on his back, uncaring even as the sharp points of obsidian dug into his spine. His bones were protruding more these days, he realized distractedly. As much as Witchers could survive without food for long periods, it didn’t mean his body hadn’t suffered for it. Even if he was loath to admit it, he knew he was little more than lean muscle and bone, even more so than usual. His breath wouldn’t stop catching in his lungs, and for the first time in several months he could say he was genuinely worried if he would survive this fight. Not necessarily out of concern for his own life. No, he had seen the damage he could do, seen what happened when he deluded himself into thinking the world needed him. But, if he died before he finished off the sea witches, the people of Isa would continue to suffer, including Essi, who had been kind to him. He knew he was too dangerous to return her kindness, too much of a liability. But the least he could do was to kill the monsters plaguing her village.

Suddenly, there came a sound that was higher pitched than the low rumble of the sea. It was a high, shrill whining noise, punctuated by strange clicking noises that always seemed to repeat in the same pattern. Geralt was half asleep when it started, lulled by the waves and the fever that was burning brighter under his skin. He was trembling on the rocks. At first, he thought the whine was a seabird, some strange species he had never seen before, having never before been to the coast. But the strange noise wouldn’t stop, the clicking wouldn’t go away. Geralt felt it getting into his head, keeping him from returning to the dazed half sleep he had allowed himself to slip into. And, as he became more aware, the Witcher realized with a deep sense of foreboding that he had not seen a single seabird nest, nor heard a single cry while he was climbing the obsidian cliffs. Everywhere else on his journey from here to Isa, the air had been rampant with birds, wheeling, screeching, diving. Their scent had filled the air, noxious on his senses. But there had been no birds on the black sand beach, none diving or swimming in the sea around him as he had allowed himself to be washed to shore. The birds avoided this place like a plague, and Geralt had enough experience hunting in forests to know that when the birds went silent, his guard must always go up.

The shrill noise, followed by the rhythmic clicking, started up again, and this time it was accompanied by a low vibration in Geralt’s medallion. Every well-trained reflex in his body thrummed, screaming warnings at him, shouting that he must act. They pushed against his fevered muscles and forced to his feet, into a crouch, hand placed on the cool leather hilt of his silver sword. Shaking the hair that the wind whipped into his eyes out of his face, Geralt slowly raised his eyes to the spire, pointing up into the late night’s glow like a great, evil finger pointing the way straight to Hell. And on the spire, about halfway down, and crawling face-first like a great, overgrown spider, Geralt caught his first glimpse of a sea witch.

As always when he encountered a new species, the bestiaries at Kaer Morhen did not do her horribleness justice. She was small, squat, with legs and arms that splayed out on either side of her more like a crab than anything remotely humanoid. Tangled green hair, similar to the hair Geralt had seen on illustrations of mermaids, extended in a matted snarl almost to her waist. However, that was there the similarity to merpeople ended. Her torso was ridiculously short, and barrel-shaped, giving way to gangly legs and arms nearly twice the length of a regular human’s, and ending in grizzled claw-like nails that were almost the length of Geralt’s forearm. The witch’s face, from what he could see, was barred in a gruesome, gleeful smile. It was a predatory expression, the victorious and self-satisfied look Geralt often saw on the cats of Kaer Morhen when they cornered an injured mouse. As she continued her headlong descent, rushing towards him in a tangle of seaweed hair and spidery limbs, Geralt tried not to consider that he was most definitely the mouse. He did not fear death. But now, faced with it in all its stinking, evil glory, Geralt didn’t know what to think. His brain was still, exhausted, frozen. He felt like he was just going through the motions, while his mind was already far away. Perhaps he was just to feverish to feel afraid.

The sea witch approached, not changing her crablike gait now that she was on the relatively even surface of the top of the cliff. She sidled along sideways, leering at him, revealing a set of broken teeth chock full of seaweed, as well as something that Geralt’s hazy brain identified as some type of raw meat. His nose was overwhelmed by the stench of decay that wafted along the cliff as she crawled towards him, cackling.

“My sisters are coming,” she chuckled, in a voice that boomed in a resonant way entirely wrong for her small, potbellied body. It sounded like the deep boom of waves crashing on the ocean floor, of ships as they wrecked on the coast, of the sea crashing against lone rocks thousands of miles out at sea.

Geralt’s hand tightened on his sword, more out of reflex than any sense of preparedness. He was trembling, feverish, aching. And yet, he had to kill them. All of them. After all, that was what he was for, a tool to keep others safe. He repeated this over and over in his head, partially to keep himself alert and partially as a comforting mantra, reminding him of his own disposable nature. 

“Good,” he growled, grinning in a way he suspected must have been horrific, “Makes less work for me to kill you all in one place.”

The witch laughed deeply, her rolling voice like a thunderous storm rolling in off the sea.

“You?” She cackled obscenely, “You can barely keep yourself upright. I can smell it, the exhaustion and illness. It rolls off you in waves. Perhaps you could hide it from the foolish fishermen, but there is no hiding it from us. We are the huntresses of the sea, designed to prowl and to consume the flesh of those that can no longer find the means to live. And you, white hair, you are our prey.”

Geralt finally allowed himself to draw his silver sword from its sheath, surpassing a shudder as the rasp of it emerging grated on his sensitive ears. He spun the sword experimentally in his hand, flipping it back over his thumb joint in a well-practiced gesture. He settled his weight, and leaned into the wind, into the hideous stench. Geralt was hideous, a monster. This was how he was meant to die; killing what was just as hideous as he was. 

“I think you may find yourself surprised at who will become the prey,” Geralt growled, deepening his voice to be heard over the roar of the sea, “You aren’t the only creature that was made to kill everything in your path.”

“How poetic,” another deep, raspy voice sneered from behind him, “Oh, how I shall enjoy killing you, golden eyes.”

Geralt whirled, and saw the two other witches, identical to their sister, leering at him from where they had crawled out of a tunnel in the obsidian. Clearly, the network of tunnels leading from the sea extended all the way to the top of the cliff, and the witches had recently returned from hunting the depths of the ocean floor. One witch was dribbling spittle disgustingly, clutching the half-gnawed carcass of a large, milky-eyed fish in her hand. Geralt backed towards the second spire, not wanting to have to defend his back as well. Normally, it would have been no problem, but the witches kept merging and flickering in his vision, and there was sweat dripping into his eyes. It was almost a relief to lean back against the obsidian spire; it offered support on his back he had barely realized he needed.

So engrossed was Geralt in the simple feeling of relief he got from leaning his back against something solid that, to his eternal shame, he almost missed the telltale twitch that happened a moment before the first witch lunged at him. He barely managed to bring up his sword in time to block her hand, which was gripping at him with nails he discovered were just as strong as steel. She made a swipe for his arm while her two sisters cackled in the background. A small amount of anger flared in Geralt’s chest that he appeared so weak that the witches clearly didn’t even believe it would take all three of them to kill him. He nurtured that small flame of frustrated, the small part of him that believed that he was at least worthy of being killed by three foes, not just one. He disengaged his sword from the witch’s talons, and swung down at her arm, attempting to at least partially relieve her of her weapons. Simultaneously, he drew a dagger from a sheath he kept hidden in his bracer, and threw it at one of the other witches, the one with the fish still dangling from her dripping jaws. She dodged deftly, with a shriek of rage, and both she and her sister began to skitter forwards with disarming swiftness. 

Realizing he would be hard pressed to take on all three witches at once, Geralt knew he had to end the first one’s life before the other two descended on him. He had succeeded, he realized belatedly, in wounding her shoulder with his sword. However, the main part of his blow had been absorbed by a scaly carapace, similar to a crab’s, that protected most of her back. Growling in frustration, Geralt yanked his sword out of her shoulder and grabbed her by her wildly wheeling, long arms, slamming her back against the rock spire he had been using for support. Aware the time before the other two witches arrived was rapidly dwindling, he did his best to dodge her long arms and sharp talons, slamming her head with the silver pommel of his sword, dazing her. Feeling vindictive, he fixed her with a piercing glare he hoped was still intimidating, despite the fogginess from the fever in his eyes. There was blood dribbling from the corner of his mouth, he realized belatedly, and a small part of him was pleased, hoping this would make him look more monstrous, more formidable.

“Is this how you hunt your prey?” He snarled, and slammed her head back against the rock spire again even as she spat in his face and clawed at him, shrieking and clicking inhumanly. His hands were wrapped tightly around her neck, giving her no chance to answer, and her murky green eyes bulged grotesquely from her head as he squeezed the breath from her throat. Geralt could hear the skittering footsteps of her two sister behind him, and loath though he was to give her an easy death, he knew he was running out of time. Removing his hands from around her slimy throat, he drew his silver sword across it, watching as sea-green ichor spilled from her throat and coated the ground below, steaming vaguely. There was a screech of rage from behind him, and a furious chittering. Geralt turned, panting, and spat the blood from his mouth. He must have bitten his cheek from concentration, but otherwise he was surprised at how unharmed he felt. 

The other two witches were writhing as they approached, hideous, fishlike faces puckered with an expression that flickered somewhere between rage and grief. Geralt was exhausted, panting and in pain, and he felt too weak to even attempt using signs. But, with the two witches slowly advancing upon him, he felt that he would have little choice but to try. He couldn't die before the job was complete. He couldn't leave another town suffering like he had done in Blaviken. With a shaking hand, he drew Igni, hoping that even a weak sign would be enough to harm the witches, who, as water-dwelling monsters, were easily harmed by fire. There was a weak fizzle and a pop that left Geralt stumbling backwards against the spire again. The closest witch batted at the flames on her dress, stomping them out as though they had been nothing more than a child's campfire. Geralt felt his heart sink into his boots, enraged to be so weak he could not even perform the simplest of signs. 

“We will drown you,” the larger one snarled, having discarded her half-eaten fish and stamped out the remaining smoking parts on her dress, “We will drown you and as you are drowning we will eat you, slowly. Curse you, curse you!”

Geralt just wheeled his sword again, gathering his faltering strength after trying to use Igni, and kicked their sister’s body out of his way, noting vaguely that he had severed her neck so deeply that her head was barely attached to her shoulders. A wasted effort, he chastised himself. He was getting sloppy. However, the darkened colours of the cliffs and the weak morning light filtering over the sea were beginning to blur together. The shapes of the sea witches danced before Geralt’s eyes, and it was mostly out of reflex that he managed to parry the first witch’s blow, pushing her backwards across the cliff. Rolling forwards in tandem with her stumbling motion, the Witcher managed to retrieve the fallen dagger he had thrown earlier, tossing it up and catching it by the hilt. Hearing the whistling of the air a second before the blow fell, he managed to parry the other sister’s talons with the dagger. She shrieked in rage, and suddenly Geralt felt a sharp, burning pain across his ribs and back. He felt suddenly very cold, as warm blood flooded over his shirt.

“Oh,” the witches cackled in unison, “So he does bleed, then. Not so different from us, after all.”

Geralt knew he was on his last legs. There was hot, thick blood coursing down his back and side, and his fingers were going numb. The world had faded to pinpricks before his eyes. He crossed his sword and dagger in front of him, and wheeled to face both sisters, hoping they wouldn’t notice how he almost stumbled and fell. His mind achingly reminded him that the way he now stood, sword resting upon dagger, advancing slowly, was exactly how Renfri had stood in her final moments. If she were here, Geralt thought, she would tell him not to be such a sentimental fool. She would tell him to get the job done, not get killed by his own inability to separate himself from humanity. Geralt felt a pang deep in his chest, that didn’t feel like the familiar pain of his wound. Then, he advanced.

Both witches fell on him as soon as he took his first step forwards, chattering and whistling and shrieking obscenely. However, they were enraged by their sister’s death, no longer using their assets to their advantage. They fell upon him in a mass of unchecked rage, flailing talons, and gnashing teeth. But there was no plan to their attack, no organization, and Geralt, wounded though he was, could use this to his advantage. He grabbed the nearest witch by the arm and pushed her backwards, slicing her with the dagger blade he kept a grip on in his outer two fingers. She shrieked as the silver came in contact with her veins, and green blood poured from where her hand dangled, almost severed. Even as he did this, Geralt stabbed blindly with his sword, parrying the other sister’s flailing talons, cutting off her arm, and slashing her diagonally across the chest. She slumped instantly, eyes rolling back in her head, unspeakable substances spilling from her mortal wound. The remaining witch, clutching the bloody stump of her hand, blinded by rage, lurched forwards, trying to bite or scratch Geralt however she could, pushing him slowly backwards.

“If I die,” she snarled, voice full of a deep agony, full of an aching pain, “I won’t die without taking you as well.”

Suddenly, Geralt realized she had been pushing him backwards, further towards the cliff’s edge. The tide was seeping out, he saw as he looked over his shoulder, and the black beach receded significantly further, giving way to sharp, jagged rocks where there had previously been water. Cursing his waning attention, Geralt stumbled sideways, trying to get out of the witch’s path as she lunged for him, hoping to send her tumbling over the edge without him. However, her remaining taloned hand wrapped around his ankle as she scrabbled for purchase on the rock, most of her body already dangling over the precipice. Geralt stumbled at the sudden weight, falling on his aching side as his legs were stolen from underneath him. When he came in contact with the ground, fiery pain seared through his whole body. His vision, which had already begun to recede, swirled into a miasma of bursting colours, and he felt what he assumed was a weak shout escape from his mouth. Blindly, in so much pain he acted out of reflex instead of judgement, the Witcher reached out and hacked blindly at his leg where the witch’s talons had taken hold. For a terrible moment, she held on, chittering madly. Then, suddenly, the grip loosened, and there was a horrendous, deep, roaring cry, as though the sea itself was enraged, as though all the birds had descended from the sky and had begun screaming. It was so loud, so painful on Geralt’s sensitive ears, he thought for a second they might burst. And then, there was nothing. Silence, but for the waves crashing against the shore so far below. Geralt reached out a trembling hand, knowing his consciousness was rapidly fleeing him. He could feel himself shivering and shaking from blood loss and fever, and he knew his moments to stem the bleeding were limited. Weakly, he ripped a piece off his already torn shirt, bunched it up, and pressed it against the wound. Essi had said she would be back at sunrise. She would find him, he thought, although he felt a deeper sense of dread at dragging another innocent into a situation which might lead to her untimely death. Perhaps it would be better if Essi left him for dead. If she left him the way he had left Renfri, barely even holding her as she sunk deep into the void.

Geralt’s own void was fast approaching, and he sunk into the miasma of colours and pain, every breath stinging his lungs and causing him to choke and cough weakly. He grasped down at his leg, unsure if it was bleeding, but he was so disoriented his fingers found purchase on nothing but obsidian. Then, he blearily realized his vision was fading to black, and his consciousness left him.

\----

It was so fucking cold. It was the kind of cold that made his bones ache, that made him tremble and shiver. Even in all his time spent travelling from Blaviken to Isa, he had never been this cold. It seemed to be coming from within him, stealing what little breath he managed to suck in, making him whimper and groan in a way that he hoped no one could hear. There was a roaring, rushing sound in his ears. The sound of the sea? He did not know. His whole body trembled, he did not know where he was or what had happened, and Gods, he _hurt_. There was something sharp digging into his back, and when he moved his hands and tried to splay his fingers he found they were damp, and stuck together. He sighed, gasping out a breath, not even able to find it within himself to open his eyes. A small part of him sent up a prayer to Gods, any fucking Gods, he didn’t care or have the energy to wonder which ones would listen, to just let him die, just let this be over. Perhaps one of his brothers would hear of his death and take his body back to Kaer Morhen. He would like that, to be with his brothers, those he had lost in the Trials and since. That was somewhere where he couldn’t cause anyone any more harm. 

\----

When they returned aboard the Darklady and there was no sign of the Witcher on the shore, Essi was confused. She knew the witches were dangerous; they had killed several of Isa’s strongest warriors. However, she had felt sure that this Witcher would be able to complete the task. He hadn’t seemed entirely well, but his physical appearance was enough to show her that a little hardship or illness would not get in the way of his doing what needed to be done. Perhaps he was still fighting? But no, it had been almost all night, and there were no sounds coming from the cliff. The telltale clangs of steel that had rung out during the skirmishes that had taken place when the men from Isa had confronted the witches were nowhere to be found. Just the soft rush of the sea on and off the beach, calm and collected this morning, gentle after last night’s thrashing waves. The sea was a fickle thing, Essi thought. Shifting and changing with the slightest shift in the breeze, flitting to and fro like an errant leaf in the final days of fall. 

She looked to Ered and shrugged, and he proceeded to drop the anchor overboard. Her twin could read her like a book, she thought. Although, to her, it seemed obvious that it was unacceptable to simply leave a man behind when he had walked into danger for people he did not know. Essi knotted her hair in a bun at the base of her neck, and pulled off her boots and her jacket, tucking her boots under her arm for when she reached the shore.

“You coming?” She asked Ered shortly. They very rarely communicated verbally. Essi preferred long eloquence of song to speaking to another person, especially someone she had known since she they had shared a womb.

Ered shook his head and placed a hand firmly on the rudder of the ship. It was a calm day, and Essi knew there was no legitimacy to what he was claiming, that he needed to stay on the Darklady to keep her steady. However, Essi knew her brother loved the seas, the gentle rocking that to him was as familiar as the rocking of the cradle is to an infant. He could spend hours anchored at sea, sitting at the rudder, allowing the sea to lull him into a meditative state that at times lasted days. 

“I’ll be back soon. I’ll call if I need your help.”

Essi did not specify why she might require his help, she knew he was already aware. She was strong, from years of carrying trays of beer and defending herself from the lecherous fish merchants who so often thought (unadvisedly) it would be wise to make her an offer as they passed through Isa. But even with her strength, a body as large and as muscular as the Witcher’s would require more than one person to drag through the cold sea.

She plunged into the soft, calm sea, allowing it to envelope her with its coldness, almost welcome, even so late in the year. Sailing was not work for the faint of heart. Essi swam with strong, powerful strokes, cutting the water. If she hadn’t felt so concerned, she might have pictured herself the way she had as a little girl, a great fish cutting through the waves. However, today was pure utility. Ered and her father had raised her with honour, with dignity, and that meant you never left one who had risked their life for you behind. Even if all you brought back was a corpse. 

As soon as Essi felt her bare feet scrape against the soft black sand, she found her balance underneath her and walked the rest of the way up the beach, enjoying the way the waves rushed out from underneath her, making her feel as though she was fighting against them, moving forwards glacially. When she finally attained the shore beyond the sea, Essi took a brief moment to gather herself, breathing in the salty air. Then, she dumped the water from her leather boots and slid them back over her bare feet. As children, before the witches came, she and Ered had scaled these cliffs and spires together many times. Before Ered had been forced to go, to fight a war where she could not follow, Essi had many fond memories of sharing sunsets together from the tops of these cliffs. Ered was quieter now, though. Emptier. Less willing to follow where she would lead him.

Shrugging off the strange chill that had suddenly overcome her, Essi placed her calloused hands on the obsidian, feeling the way it soaked up the heat of the morning sun, the way the dew and spray from the sea slipped under her fingers. With hands that were well practiced, that knew this cliff almost by heart, she began her ascent. There was a grace, a rhythm to it that she allowed herself to fall into, listening to the sea below to time the swings of her hands, the motion of her ascent. By the time she felt her hands close over the top lip of the cliff, she was almost in a trance, wrapped up in the music of the sea which surrounded every part of this place. By this alone, she knew the Witcher must have been successful. When the witches were here, it was cold, desolate, devoid of light and stinking of rotting fish. Now, she felt at peace here, like she had as a child. Light filled the air and entered in the cracks of her soul.

However, when Essi reached the top, all the peace that she had attained on her ascent vanished. The hot obsidian, warming in the morning sun, was more than a battleground. It looked as though a slaughter had taken place. There was blood, green and red, pooling in the divets in the rock, rife with flies. The whole place stank like rotting fish, and there were the bodies of two witches sprawled at odd angles on the ground, one almost entirely beheaded. It was a brutal sight, and Essi was unsure if she wanted to turn away and vomit, or to remember every detail, to record every moment, to weave into music.

So engrossed was she by the bodies of the witches, horrific and fishlike and stinking like Hell, that she almost missed the Witcher, lying against the cliff a good ways away from the body. Once she saw him, she was not sure how he could have passed her by. One arm was dangling over the ledge, and the hair she remembered as being burnished, brilliant silver was darkened almost black with blood. Leaving the witches, she sprinted over the rocks, leaping deftly from one small ridge to another, until she reached him.

He was clearly in a bad way. His hand, the one which hung over the edge of the cliff, was cut wide open, and Essi winced in sympathy, recognizing well the wounds as those earned while climbing the sharp cliff face without knowing the way. His side was bleeding fiercely, the shirt cut open in three identical claw marks which had yet to clot, and there was another cut in his leg, although that one appeared to be clotting and healing already. Most worryingly, however, was the way he shivered and trembled, eyes dancing under the sockets. When Essi touched his forehead, he was burning, and every breath rattled in his chest. Essi felt a pang of guilt. She had known. She had known he was not well, and yet she had allowed him to continue on, even as he looked as though he was on the verge of falling over. Just like she had allowed Ered to go to war and come back a silent husk, here she had again failed to recognize the signs before it was too late. He still breathed, she knew. But he was bleeding, and there was no way she and Ered could get him down the cliff in such a state. She would have to send Ered back to Isa to get horses and ride the clifftop path, a task that would take hours she wasn’t sure they had. However, she had little choice. She couldn’t leave him on this stinking battleground to die.

Standing on legs she had barely realized were trembling before now, Essi shouted over the cliffs. The rocks would carry her voice, she knew. And Ered would be listening.

“I need horses!” She cried as loudly as she could, “Come by the clifftop path.”

A moment later, the Darklady’s crimson sail unfurled, and Essi thought she caught a brief glimpse of Ered’s pale hand raised in the sun as he made his way back along the coast.

Once the Darklady had passed around the outcropping in the cliff, Essi knelt back down. She had no supplies but what she was wearing, and the small dagger at her waist, and she was alone with an injured and ill man atop an obsidian clifftop surrounded by stinking corpses and miles away from help. Her heart ached. This Witcher would need a miracle if he was to survive. However, though Essi knew she could not provide a miracle, she could at least do her best to stop the bleeding and make him comfortable. Grasping the Witcher under the arms, praying that it wouldn’t pull at the horrifying wound in his back and side, she dragged him away from the edge of the cliff and to a dip in the rock that she hoped would at least be slightly more comfortable. Removing the blue scarf she had used to tie her hair back, Essi did her best to wrap it around the wounds in the Witcher’s side. However, it was not nearly big enough, and the second it came in contact with his skin it was dyed a dark purple from the blood mixing with the blue dye. Essi ran her hands through her hair, completely unsure of how to move forward. She felt ill, looking at this man and being able to do nothing to save him. She hadn’t even had the presence of mind to bring along a needle and thread to stitch his wounds.

As she sat and agonized, trying desperately to keep some form of pressure on the bloody cuts, she felt the man stir underneath her. Biting back a curse, Essi looked up and saw confused amber eyes staring up at her. They were hazy, utterly lost, completely unsure. It seemed he was unable to open them past halfway, and the small crease in his dark brows spoke to the tension he held throughout his whole body.

“Can’t…be done,” he gasped, looking so hopelessly confused that Essi felt a deep pang in her chest, “Should…hurt. Shouldn’t be awake.”

His words were slurred, barely there, and only served to confuse Essi more. Did he think he should be dead? That he had been more wounded by the witches than he truly was? Or was he delirious and talking about something else entirely? 

Essi placed her bet on the latter. He was burning to her touch, weak with blood loss, and, if their early morning encounter at the inn said anything, suffering from severe sleep deprivation. 

“It’s done,” she murmured soothingly, trying to remember how she had seen Ered talk to wounded men when he had returned from battle, “Just close your eyes now. All will be well.”

Essi felt sick lying to him, especially because it seemed to only confuse the Witcher more.

“Who’re you…where’s Vesemir?”

Scrambling for purchase on what little facts she had learnt about Witchers from books and ballads, Essi took a stab in the dark and assumed that Vesemir was another Witcher and not a horse or suchlike.

“He’s…out hunting. He’ll be back soon.”

This appeared to be a satisfactory answer, because the Witcher breathed a deep sigh of relief and allowed his eyes to fall shut again. His whole frame trembled, and Essi sent up a brief prayer that Ered would arrive soon. She was not sure how much longer he could hold on without someone to see to him properly.

Just as he seemed almost asleep, though, he jerked awake again, groaning. A trembling hand clawed at the side where Essi was holding down her scarf desperately, trying to stem the bleeding.

“Who’re you?” He slurred, confused and dazed, barely there.

“I’m Essi, a bard from Isa,” she felt it would probably be best to start from the beginning, it was likely he did not remember much of anything at the moment, “I work at the inn where you’re staying. Last night you left to hunt some sea witches that have been plaguing our village, and you killed them. My brother brought me here this morning, and I found you here. I’m waiting for him to arrive with horses to take you back to the village.”

The Witcher nodded, but Essi doubted he had taken much of the information in. There was sweat pouring off his forehead, and his hand which had previously been grasping at his wound was now too weak to do much more than clench and unclench a torn bit of his shirt. As Essi watched this weak attempt to soothe the probably overwhelming pain he was in, a thought suddenly occurred to her.

“What’s your name, Witcher? You never told me, and seeing as how you’ve seen me play it seems only fair that I at least know who you are.”

The Witcher still looked confused, he kept nodding off and then rousing again, grimacing at the pain. It seemed he hurt too much even to go back to sleep, so Essi figured she might as well keep him occupied. She felt at a loss. Healing was supposed to be women’s work, but she had always felt much more comfortable far away from situations like these, preferring to leave such work to Ered, who was always able to stitch a wound or soothe a fever.

“Geralt. Of Rivia.” The Witcher looked up at her with trepidation in his eyes, and Essi immediately understood why he had not given his name to anyone in Isa before now.

“You’re the white-haired Witcher from Rivia,” she said, feeling suddenly very confused and upset, “I thought it might be you, but I’ve never seen a Witcher before. I thought perhaps you all had white hair. But it’s you. The one who butchered nigh on sixteen people in the market in Blaviken.”

Geralt closed his eyes exhaustedly and reached up to press Essi’s scarf to his side. He looked resigned, pale, with the telltale pink patches of illness resting high on his cheekbones.

“Yes…” he breathed, his voice barely more than a whisper, “Y’can go…if you want. But…I won’t hurt you.”

Essi’s heart ached. He was barely alive, too weak to even keep his hand clasped around the bandage (he kept losing his grip), and he seemed to be labouring under the delusion that she planned to leave him alone to die on this cliff. He was no better than the stupid, self-sacrificing soldiers her brother had commanded. Always believing they were not enough to be saved.

“I’m not leaving. I don’t give two fucks what happened in Blaviken. You stayed here, you helped us, even when the alderman turned you down. You risked your life. You were given a chance to redeem yourself, and you took it. Besides, I wouldn’t leave a soldier who had fought Nilfgaard to keep me safe dying by the side of the road. I don’t see how this is any different.”

Geralt blinked, and Essi wasn’t sure if the look on his face was confused or surprised. He weakly rubbed a hand across his sweaty forehead, trying to clear the sweat from his eyes. Gently, Essi took his hand and laid it back down by his side, and wiped the drops of sweat away from his eyes.

“Ered will be back soon with the wagon, and then we’ll get you some herbs for your fever and your pain. Just try to rest until then.”

Geralt was clearly slipping out of consciousness, his bright amber eyes going cross-eyed in a way that would have been amusing if he wasn’t so clearly in a bad way. He kept grimacing and waking briefly, only to slip back into his stupor, and Essi quickly realized that he wasn’t going to be able to rest without help. Feeling uncomfortable and rather stupid, she went and sat by his bloodied hair, taking his hand in her own. Then, trying to swallow her nervousness, she began to sing, gently. It was an old ballad, more a lullaby, one her mother had often sung when she and Ered were children. Essi loved singing, loved the harmonies and the rich tones that created a tapestry so vibrant that she could almost see it, weaving before her eyes. But she had never done this before, never sung to anyone openly, at least not while she was aware she was being listened to. Without her lute, she felt even more naked, exposed on the cliff top where anyone could hear her. It was frightening, and exhilarating, and if she hadn’t been so worried for the Witcher who was currently taking wheezing, sickly breaths in her lap it might have been beautiful.

As she continued, singing gently, rocking her body in time with the beat and with the waves crashing on the shore below, she felt Geralt’s head grow heavier and less tense in her lap. He was not asleep; every few minutes his eyes would snap open and he would take a deep, painful breath before devolving into fits of painful coughing that left him gasping for air. But Essi continued her song, tried her best to lull both of them into a trance that would make the time go faster, and the coughing grew further and further apart. His hands, which had been clenching weakly at the blue scarf, almost blackened with blood, went slack. While his eyes still roamed desperately under their lids, he breathed easier. Heaving a sigh of relief, Essi leaned back, her hands absently picking bits of flaked blood and ichor from Geralt’s hair. By her approximation, they had been sitting here for about an hour, and it could easily be at least as long before Ered arrived with the horses. Running her hands over the claw marks in Geralt’s side, she saw they had begun to slow their bleeding. Large clots rested in the centres of them, and she felt deep relief. It still sounded as though the Witcher was having a great deal of trouble breathing, but he had eased a bit since Essi had eased his head up in her lap. Beyond that, she hoped the pain and fever would not send him spiralling into shock before Ered arrived. She leaned back on her hands, humming softly, and tried to ignore the numbness that had spread into her legs. Below, the sea washed gently against the shore, seeming more peaceful than it had in days. 

\----

Geralt knew he was aware, and that awareness brought him to the conclusion that he very much did not want to be awake at all. There was a deep, burning pain in his chest, and what felt like very deep cuts in his side and his leg, probably slicing through his intercostal muscles. He ached, deeply, thoroughly. He could barely breathe without feeling as though he needed to cough. However, unlike the last time he had woken, he had the very distinct impression that he was not alone. There was a presence near to him, a vague disturbance in the air that could only be caused by a moving being. At first, Geralt felt his heart begin to pound faster. He had killed all the witches, hadn’t he? However, he couldn’t imagine who else might have come for him. He had, after all, been travelling alone.

Then, he felt the soft touch of hands on his head, gently picking through what was probably dried blood. Although his lungs ached, Geralt felt the urge to breathe a sigh of pleasure. He was in pain, and felt so very ill, but the soft hands calmed his trembling a bit. He was confused; there were no other Witchers here, at least not that he remembered, and he could not imagine who else would come for him. Even Witchers would never show this kind of physical affection, even to one of their own. But Geralt could not find the energy to open his eyes. He tried to grasp at the person’s hand, but his own arm seemed to be weighed down, impossibly heavy. When he tried to speak, nothing came to him but a ragged cough which sent his head spinning.

Abruptly, whoever had been cleaning his hair stopped, and he felt his head move, bringing on a wave of dizziness so sever that he felt his body convulse and wretch underneath him, a soft voice murmuring that it was alright. He must have lost a great deal of blood, to be so ill.

There were voices, far away, like the distant cry of gulls, even though Geralt knew they must be closer. He felt warm inside, but not in a pleasant way. It was as though his insides were melting, burning away and leaving nothing but aching flesh pulled tight across his bones. Had he been different, not a Witcher, he thought he might have allowed himself a few whimpers. However, Witchers were stoic to the last. He held his breath as much as he could, hoping it would keep the pained noises at bay. 

Footsteps echoed across whatever hard surface he was lying on, and then he felt his arms being lifted, hands stinging with deep pain. Strange, he didn’t remember injuring his hands. Geralt wished he could open his eyes to look, but his eyelids were far too heavy, and he felt far too sick as he felt himself being dragged upright. His clothes cracked against his flesh, soaked with partially dried blood. 

“You’re alright,” a soft, musical voice murmured, so close to Geralt’s ear that it mad him jerk in shock, “We’re just going to get you on a horse, and then we’ll be on our way back to the inn.”

Geralt tried to make a noncommittal noise, but it came out as more of a moan, and he felt the fiery wounds on his side and back pull as his arms were draped over two shoulders, one slender and one broad. The toes of his boots bounced and scraped over an uneven surface, and the weight of his head pulled against his neck, but he was too weak to hold it up. The sweet voice continued speaking to him as he felt himself being pushed up onto a horse, as he retched and choked at the change in altitude and the pain in his side. There was a warm weight that settled onto the horse behind him, and gentle arms wrapped around his waist, careful of his wounds. A hand guided his head from where it was hanging over the horse’s mane back onto a slender shoulder.

“We’ll be on our way now. I know the ride will be painful, so if you can, tell me if it hurts too much and we can stop. There’s no rush, and we’ll have to cut across the moors so no guards at the gates see us coming from this direction.”

Geralt tried to nod, feeling more and more confused. He couldn’t remember the last time someone had been this gentle with him. He was a Witcher, the Butcher of Blaviken. You aren’t gentle with a butcher. But he was tired, and his head and side ached, and there was fever burning deep under his flesh. Of all the times he would have welcomed this kind of treatment, he was glad he had found it today.

The horse began to move underneath him, just at a slow trot, and Geralt saw golden stars explode on the backs of his eyelids as the pain in his side became brutal, unbearable. He felt all the areas where he had been holding tension go completely limp, and his consciousness narrowed to nothing but hot, feverish pain and the feeling that he was imminently going to be sick.

As his consciousness fled, each beat of the horse’s hooves bringing him further to painful oblivion, he thought he heard seagulls calling in the air above him. With his last coherent moments, he thought this was strange. There had been no seagulls when he climbed the cliffs this morning; it had been dead, empty, devoid of life beyond the witches who had chased away everything else that was good and natural. As a being who was considered neither good nor natural, Geralt thought it was odd that now the witches were gone, the birds were returning. His actions were supposed to bring equilibrium, not goodness. But, he reasoned, he was fevered. The birds were probably calling in his mind, in the tendrils of delirium that were worming their way into his consciousness. He did not bring about goodness.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well, there's another chapter done! I want to thank each and every one of you for your kind comments on the last chapter, they mean more to me than you can ever know. This story has taken a ton of effort, so it means so much to know there are people out there who are enjoying reading this. Please let me know what you liked, what you'd like to see, a favourite part, something that needs changing, even just a smiley face or something will brighten my world! Oh, and if you want a rad new friend on Tumblr, I'm aloe-casia.
> 
> If any of my readers are taking part in the protests this week as well, please stay strong and stay safe.


	3. Eyes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Ered and Essi avoid past traumas as they try to get Geralt back to Isa. Ered employs the help of someone peculiar. Geralt wakes up and finds himself in a nightmare.

Essi knew it was a damnably long ride back from the Black Cliffs to Isa, but it had never felt quite this long before. Her legs burned from holding two riders on the saddle, and her arms were cramped, completely stiff in their position wrapped around Geralt’s limp frame. For his part, the Witcher was out cold, his head bouncing on Essi’s shoulder. She would have been concerned about the way such bouncing might further be addling his brain if she hadn’t had bigger problems on her mind. Namely, the wounds in his side were bleeding sluggishly again, and there was sweat pouring from his forehead. Essi could feel the heat of his fever through his own torn shirt as well as her own leather jacket.

“Ered!” She called as Geralt’s head banged against her shoulder again, “We need to stop. I have to put something else on this wound to staunch the bleeding.”

Ered reined his dark mare to a stop. He had brought bandages with him when he had ridden across the clifftops, but when they had departed the battleground the wounds had almost been scabbed over. Bandages and other healing supplies were in scarce supply in Isa, with the alderman keeping most of them for himself and his inner circle, so Essi and Ered had decided to wait, in hopes of saving the precious resource. Now, however, it seemed as though they would have no choice but to stop and re-bandage the wounds.

Ered dismounted first, trusting his mare not to run off on him. She was a war horse, trained by Ered and ridden by him into battle, and she would not desert him easily. Essi sometimes felt envious of the closeness Ered shared with her. In some ways, it was deeper than the closeness they shared as twins, a silent understanding that she could never hope to match.

“Pass him to me,” Ered muttered, holding out his arms to receive Essi’s burden, “I’ll re-bandage these quickly and then we can be on our way. And he must be getting heavy, I’ll carry him the rest of the way there. This isn’t the first time I’ve helped a wounded soldier, and I don’t want to run into one of Devos’s patrols outside the city gates with him in your saddle. He’d have us drawn and quartered if he found out we had gone against his orders.”

Essi loosened her grip on Geralt enough to allow him to tip over the side of the saddle and into Ered’s waiting arms, feeling a sympathetic twist in her gut as he roused slightly, stirring as he landed surprisingly gently in Ered’s waiting arms. Essi caught her brother’s eye, checking for any signs of the retreat into himself, of the terror and aloneness he sometimes experienced. She knew that treating a wounded man, holding an injured body in his arms, was enough to send him over the edge. Sometimes he would be lost for days, completely dissociated from everyone and everything. Essi didn’t know what she would do, halfway back to Isa with an injured man, if her brother wasn’t there to help her. Besides, he knew when the patrols on the wall changed, and how to get back into Isa undetected by Devos. However, his resolve held. He nodded to her once, firmly, a soldier’s nod, and then carried Geralt to a nearby flat rock.

“Did you get the cloak you gave him from the clifftop?” Ered asked, seeing how Geralt was trembling, feeling the shivers that wracked his frame. Essi shook her head.

“He must have dropped it or lost it in the fight. I couldn’t see it anywhere when I arrived, but the wind was strong. Maybe he took it off and it blew away.”

Ered set his mouth in a grim line as he began unwrapping the bloodied bandages on the Witcher’s torso, dropping them in a sopping heap next to the rock. Essi had to suppress a gag when she saw the way they dripped, absolutely soaked with dark blood. 

“We’ll have to stitch these when we get back to Isa,” Ered said grimly, although Essi noted the pained monotone his voice had taken on, “I can’t stop the bleeding on this damn cliff. We need to hurry, Essi.”

There was a concerning blank look in Ered’s eyes, and Essi felt her heart drop a bit as he wrapped his arms around himself, as though to fend off a chill, even though the day was warm. 

“I can re-bandage the wounds and carry him the rest of the way. I can tell this is upsetting you, Ered, and I’m not going to let that happen. You need to keep your wits about you if we’re going to get past Devos’ men. It’s only a matter of time before he finds out what happened.”

Essi took her brother’s frighteningly pliable hands, normally so strong, and wiped them clean of blood on the front of her shirt. Then, she knelt in front of Geralt, cleaning as much of the blood as she could from his side and back with a spare bit of bandage. He shifted under her touch, trembling and coughing weakly, but did not awaken. Essi didn’t know whether to be relieved or worried by this development; but she was more worried about the blood that continued to pour from the Witcher’s side. Deftly, putting hands made nimble by years of playing the lute to good use, she wrapped bandages around him while trying to move him as little as possible. Both she and Ered winced every time he made a pained noise, sometimes pushing his hands hard against the flat rock. 

“You’re alright,” Essi murmured, trying to be comforting in the same way she remembered her father comforting her when she was ill as a little girl, and feeling like she was doing a woefully poor job, “Just a little longer and we’ll be back in Isa, and we can get you warm and dry.”

She was unsure if Geralt had heard her, but his tightly clenched fists loosened a fraction, and his rasping breaths slowed a bit.

“Ered, I need your help to get him back into my saddle. Then you won’t need to touch him again until we get back home.”

“I’m fine,” Ered grumbled, uncrossing his arms and staring stubbornly at his feet, “He isn’t my first wounded soldier and he won’t be my last.”

“He’s not a soldier,” Essi reminded her brother gently, “And you aren’t responsible for him. So let me carry him back, and you won’t get any blood on you. It’ll be better that way, anyways. If you go looking for a healer covered in blood, Devos is likely to find out much sooner what happened.”

Ered shifted uncomfortably from side to side, leaving Essi feeling frustrated and helpless. He couldn’t carry another wounded man, not after his time at war, and Essi was tired of arguing with him about something he was clearly incapable of doing. Especially because now was neither the time nor the place. Her patience had worn thin, and she lifted Geralt’s arm over her shoulder, making it clear she planned to get him back on the horse with or without her brother’s help. Ered immediately leapt into action, taking Geralt’s other side, although Essi noticed with some relief that he fastidiously avoided the blood coating the Witcher’s body.

Together, the two of them managed to lift Geralt onto the horse, with Essi firmly seated behind him, wrapping both arms around his wounded torso. He had woken a bit when they lifted him onto her horse, but not coherently, just murmuring feverishly before falling unconscious again. The wind ruffled his hair, and Essi felt his trembling increase.

“We’re almost there,” she murmured over and over again as they rode hard back towards Isa, “Just hold on a bit longer, we’re almost there.”

\----

Geralt knew he wasn’t awake, not truly. More semi-conscious, if even that. He was aware that he could think now again, but he was in so much damned pain it was nearly impossible to concentrate on anything. He wondered if this was Hell. He had never believed in such nonsense before, but he had a vague memory of a fight that had ended poorly. There had been so much blood; a good amount of it his. And, after Blaviken, after Renfri, he was fairly sure that any God who judged him rightly would send him straight to the fiery pits.

That would explain the heat, then, as well. He felt as though he was burning from the inside out, his whole body pulsing with pain that kept time with the feverish burning. His skin prickled, hot and covered in sweat, and Geralt could feel it dripping into his eyes. However, when he tried to lift a hand to wipe it away, he found his arms would not move. In fact, not even his eyelids would move, and he felt exhausted by every beat of his too-fast heart. He thought he might have groaned or whimpered in pain, but he wasn’t sure, and he was slipping, losing his grip on his thoughts. Suddenly, it was so very cold, and he felt himself trembling right down to his bones. His teeth chattered, which made him hurt, and he was just so fucking tired, but couldn’t find rest. Somewhere far above him, Geralt heard a woman’s voice talking, and wondered if it was Renfri, come to torture him, even now. He wanted to reach out, wanted to say he was sorry, that he wished things could have gone differently, but his teeth chattered too much and his tongue felt swollen in his aching mouth.

The voice stopped, and there was suddenly a deliciously warm hand placed on his forehead. Geralt couldn’t stop trembling, couldn’t stop the cold and the pain, most of which seemed to be radiating from his side and back, but the hand made him aware enough to realize that he seemed to be lying on his stomach, with his head raised up on a pillow. The whole room was too cold, and he wanted so much to find a blanket to wrap around his shivering shoulders, but his eyes still refused to open. However, it seemed he was still alive. Slightly befuddled by this, Geralt sighed, feeling a thrill of something akin to fear when the sigh caught in his throat, bringing on a vicious round of cough. His lungs burned, his ribs ached, and whatever wounds he had sustained that had laid him low were so painful he felt his consciousness swirling away from him. Feebly, he tried to maintain his grasp, for no other reason than he wanted to know if the owner of the voice was Renfri, if perhaps she had wounded him and the rest had just been a fever dream. Perhaps he could go back to just being Geralt, not being a butcher, a murderer. Weakly, he tried to get his hand to move and his lips to form words, but if he did produce sound he didn’t manage to make it sound intelligible, and he was still coughing wetly. Someone had lifted him up, and it made his head spin.

“Just go to sleep,” the voice said, sweet and soft and feminine, with a lilt of song, “We’re getting you help. The next time you wake, you’ll feel better, I promise.”

Geralt didn’t really want to go; not when that voice might belong to a woman he had thought he’d murdered in the name of a greater good he didn’t believe in. But he couldn’t stay, he was so damnably tired and by the Gods if he didn’t hurt with every breath. Surely, if she hadn’t already died, she would still be there when he woke again?

Too exhausted to entertain the line of questioning any further, Geralt allowed the pain to take him away, slipping back into a feverish haze where he could no longer think at all.

\----

Essi tapped her foot nervously against the floor, squeezing a cloth out of a bowl of cold water and running across the Witcher’s face and shoulders again. He tossed and turned, brows creased and fists clenched in pain. Worse, every time he moved his breath would hitch from pain, sending him into violent coughing fits that made Essi shudder with fear. It sounded like his lungs were filled with water, and she couldn’t even rub his back or sit him up straighter to try and ease him. Ered had left over half an hour to fetch a healer, but it was a job to find anyone in Isa who wasn’t deep in Devos’ informants’ pockets. She suspected he would not be back for a while, but her own healing skills were limited, and even with the help of her father there was a small part of her that was desperately afraid Geralt would not live to see Ered’s return.

When they had first arrived back at the inn, she and Ered had carefully spirited Geralt up to the room he had rented through the back entrance, laying him on the bed. Essi hadn’t wanted to press Ered for details of how to treat Geralt, fearing it would cause him too much distress. He had brought her water and fresh bandages, but left without elaborating any more than that, and Essi had respected his reluctance. However, now she was left alone with a seriously injured man with a physiology she knew absolutely nothing about, with nothing more than a bowl of water and some bandages. He was delirious with fever; she hadn’t even been able to give him blankets to soothe his shivers, for fear he would overheat and die. He tossed and turned, calling out for a woman named Renfri, and someone named Vesemir. Over and over he apologized to both of them, saying he was a disappointment and that he had hurt them. At one point, when she had been singing softly, more composing and singing for herself, he had woken enough to start speaking to her, although he clearly did not recognize where he was.

“Renfri…” he murmured, with Essi mostly ignoring his ravings, “Stoke up the fire, or you’ll freeze. When did it get so damnably cold?”

Essi had looked up, more hoping to bring him something to ease his shivers a bit, but had found two glazed amber eyes staring hazily up at her. It had surprised her so much she started backwards, almost knocking the bowl of water on the wooden side table.

“I’m sorry,” she murmured, trying to indulge a rare moment of wakefulness, hoping to figure out a bit more about how he was feeling, “I’ll get the fire going again. How are you doing?”

“Mmm…like shit. What…happened? I had a horrible dream. ‘M glad…you’re alright.”

Essi, without the faintest idea of what he was talking about, had just stroked his forehead, watching with relief when he closed his eyes against her touch.

“You had a fight, with some sea witches. It ended poorly…more so for them than for you. Ered’s gone to get help. He’ll be back soon, and then we’ll get you feeling better.”

Geralt’s eyes, which had been almost shut, shot open with the most naked look of hurt she had ever seen. It was almost more like heartbreak.

“The witches…Blaviken…that was a dream,” he tossed his head fitfully, balling up the blankets in shaking fists, “I’m in the forest. You’re Renfri, you’re alive, I didn’t kill you, I can’t have, fucking hell, please. This is just a fever dream.”

There was sweat dripping into his eyes, and Essi brushed it away, trying to catch an errant tear that tumbled down his cheek with it. She ached for him, for how weak and confused he was, for how much he was hurting. 

“I’m sorry, Geralt. You’re in Isa. We’re getting you help, Blaviken is behind you. You saved us all from starvation this winter, you know? Everyone will be grateful when they find out what you’ve done. You’ll want for nothing while you’re recovering here.”

He was too distressed, though, too far gone to even understand her words. He gasped and shook, groaning when his movements pulled at the gashes in his side. Essi noted with great worry that he could barely move his head; the witches must have sliced his muscles clean through to achieve such damage. She ran a hand over his hair, tried to cool off his sweaty forehead a bit, all the while murmuring soothing nonsense until he finally fell back into a fitful sleep, his words slowly slurring together into incoherent sounds.

When he was finally settled, Essi carefully removed the bandages, wincing when the blood pulling away from his skin caused Geralt to wince and shift, groaning tiredly before slipping back into oblivion. Below, there were footsteps she recognized, and a moment later Ered appeared at the door, averting his gaze at the sight of blood. Behind him, a girl trailed. Essi gulped, praying to whatever Gods existed that she wasn’t the only healer he had been able to find.

“Who’s this?” She asked, not unkindly, but with a definite edge in her voice.

“I’m Sayri.” The girl looked at Essi with a challenging glare, and immediately she understood why Ered had been chosen her. Sayri was a local girl, a fisherman’s daughter, who had recently come home from spending three winters at Aretuza. She was something of a local phenomenon, a magical prodigy able to do things that most mages three times her age could not accomplish. The mages at Aretuza had sent her home, stating that at her maturity level they had taught her everything they could, and were now waiting for her to bleed her first in order to bring her back to the castle and initiate her as a mage in full. However, Sayri was well practiced and capable of a good deal of difficult magical endeavours. After a long night of drinking, a patron had even said she was able to raise the dead. While Essi didn’t believe such nonsense, neither did she doubt that the girl, while diminutive, had tremendous skill. She was surprised at how small Sayri was; barely more than four feet tall, with wild, brown curly hair that framed her face, giving her a slightly untamed look. Her eyes were small and brown, and she had dainty hands that fidgeted and moved constantly, tugging at her dress or twisting in strange, impossible-seeming shapes. 

“Can we count on your discretion?” Essi asked, motioning the girl forward. She took small, dainty steps, her brown boots barely making a sound even on a floor that was notorious for squeaking.

“Absolutely. I owe my loyalty to no one in Isa.” Her pointed chin was proud and lifted, and she straightened her back. She commanded attention; there was an energy radiating from her that made Essi’s skin crawl. Having never met a real mage, Sayri was decidedly as close as she ever wanted to get. The girl was unsettling. Her eyes looked aged; as though she carried a great weight on her shoulders. Similar to how Geralt had looked before they had dropped him on the black sand beach, now that Essi thought of it. Perhaps they would get on well, if he lived.

“Good,” Essi tried her best to match Sayri’s commanding energy; she was disconcerted at feeling outmatched by a girl who could be no older than seven, “If Devos ever finds out he’s here, we’ll all by killed. He was defending us from the witches on the black sand beach, by the spires. He killed them, but at great personal cost. I also think he was ill before he ever fought them. He needs more healing than what I can provide.”

The girl wrinkled her little button nose and approached Geralt, who was still tossing and turning, moaning and wrapping his arms around himself as though to ward off a great chill. She placed a hand on his forehead, and stumbled back, squeezing her eyes shut. For a moment, the girl just stood like that, hands braced on her knees, breathing hard. Essi placed a hand on her tiny shoulder, feeling strangely maternal, and waited for her to catch her breath.

“He’s…exhausted,” Sayri finally said quietly, her voice having lost all of its previous commanding intensity, “He’s worked himself to the bone; I can’t tell the last time he stopped to rest. And he’s hurting. Deeper than just his flesh. He did…something. Something that he regrets deeply, and now he can’t find peace from it. I can stitch his wounds, make poultices, dull his pain. But mostly he needs rest, and time to recover. And, when the time is right, someone to be silent and listen.”

Essi nodded. She could guess what was troubling the Witcher, even from her few encounters with him. Previously, she had never thought a Witcher could feel empathy. But Geralt radiated it, although it was restrained, contained in the form of great internal turmoil. It reminded Essi of her brother.

“Do what you can to heal his body. I’ll stay with him, and help you if I can.”

Sayri nodded shortly.

“We won’t be able to use any potions to heal him; he’s let himself go too long without rest. They would more likely kill him than help him at this stage. I’ll have to treat his wounds the way I would with a human, and hope it’s enough.”

Essi, who had no idea what potions Sayri was talking about or why they might kill him, simply stood, waiting for further instruction. She felt woefully out of her element; being more used to dealing with inebriated customers than men with real, dangerous wounds and illnesses. It ached at her heart; yet another situation where she was unable to help.

“Bring me that water, and a needle and thread from downstairs. These need to be cleaned and stitched. I’ll make some peppermint tea for the cough, but beyond that the most we can do is keep the fever down.”

Essi hurried out, and after some quick hunting and deft avoiding of all the guests inhabiting the lobby, she returned with the required ingredients. Geralt was still tossing, although he was murmuring a bit more coherently now, something about a siege, someone named Eskel, and that he needed to go home to rest, that he couldn’t get a moment’s peace alone on the path. Essi hurt for him. Clearly, Blaviken had broken him. She only hoped it wasn’t permanent.

When Sayri set about stitching together his wounds with thick black thread, however, things took a turn for the worse. Geralt had been unconscious up until this point, but the wounds were severe and obviously very painful. Essi had taken up residence by his head, wiping the sweat off his forehead and away from his eyes. The first few passes of the needle through skin went smoothly, but then the Witcher stirred and awoke, wincing and looking around, although his eyes only opened halfway.

“Fucking hell…Vesemir…why? Why me?”

Essi looked frantically at Sayri, who shrugged and went back to her sewing. Clearly, Essi was on her own.

“I’m sorry, Geralt. It’ll be over soon, we’re just getting your side and back stitched up. Try to rest.”

“I…didn’t want this,” he ground out, gripping Essi’s hand in his own, so tightly she had to grit her teeth to keep from crying out, “Isn’t the Trial of the Grasses…fucking enough? Fuck, Vesemir, am I going to die? Can’t…see. Too bright…hurts.”

Essi settled for running her hands over and over through Geralt’s hair, not really seeing the value in trying to explain that he was not wherever he thought he was. She had placed the damp cloth over his eyes after his complaint about the light, and drawn the blinds, but he continued to tremble. Sayri was about halfway done, her small teeth gritted with concentration. 

“His fever’s rising,” she commented when she took a moment to look up from her work, “He needs to rest, but he’ll never get there if he stays delirious from fever. I can try giving him laudanum to help him sleep, but I don’t know what it will do to him. I know almost nothing about Witchers, except their senses vary drastically from our own.”

Essi shrugged, feeling at a loss. She had thought Witchers were nothing more than a legend until she had heard what happened at Blaviken. 

“If he needs the sleep, we should try. I don’t know how much worse he could get without dying.”

Sayri nodded, and removed a small phial from the leather bag she had brought with her. Geralt was still twisting fitfully on the bed, clearly in a good deal of pain and not in any lucid state. He would occasionally groan, interspersed with murmurings about trials, and why he had been chosen for them. Essi felt at a loss. Whatever world his fevered brain had taken him to, it was a mystery to her. Sayri wet a cloth with a bit of the laudanum and covered his nose and his mouth, and Essi watched as his eyes grew more and more unfocused, his movements more sluggish. However, just as she thought he was absolutely going to pass out, his eyes forced their way open.

“Stop fighting it,” she whispered, hoping he was just confused about why he was suddenly so tired, “It’ll help you to heal.”

He shook his head, though, adamant about staying awake even though his muscles were clearly stiff from his wounds and his eyes kept sliding shut, seemingly without him realizing it.

“The fuck…did you give me?” His breathing was wet and raspy, and picking up in speed, as though he were panicking, “’S too loud…”

He trailed off in a bout of coughing, clenching his arms weakly around his chest, eyes rolling back in his head even as he fought to keep them open.

“It’s just laudanum,” Essi said worriedly, looking to Sayri, hoping for an explanation as to why he was fighting this, why he seemed suddenly so afraid, “It will help you sleep. You need to rest if you want to fight off the sickness and let your body heal. Sayri here says it’s been a long while since you last had any decent sleep.”

Geralt was barely awake; the only sign he was still aware was that his jaw was working, teeth grinding together. He pushed his eyes open once more, with tremendous effort. His body trembled and shook.

“Fuck...can’t have that,” he slurred, reaching into the air but not really grasping at anything in particular, “Not good…for my senses. Overwhelming…”

Essi could hardly hear what he was saying anymore. His words were slurred and sloppy, like his mouth was full of syrup. His eyes had rolled back fully in his head, and his hands, which had been clutching at the sheets, hung limply at his sides. The fever still had a hold on him; there was sweat pouring off his forehead, and the claw wounds in his side were still only half stitched.

“I don’t know what that laudanum will do to his senses, but I know it will be worse if he keeps fighting it,” Sayri said as she returned to the rotten work of sewing his bleeding wounds shut, seeming shockingly unconcerned, “Whatever is done to Witchers to improve their senses, it must react negatively with certain drugs. Try to keep him calm, perhaps then we’ll be able to get him to sleep off the effects.”

Essi nodded, hoping desperately Geralt would stop fighting it and fall asleep. His whole body was tense, and she could see his eyes flitting to and fro underneath his eyelids. 

“Fuck…Renfri…why the fuck does this hurt so much?”

His hands fisted themselves up in the front of Essi’s blue dress. Her heart ached, wishing more than anything that she could explain to him that Renfri, whoever she was, was not here. That they were somewhere far away from whatever was causing him such turmoil. Every time he spoke it devolved into wet coughing, and Essi eventually propped him up in her lap, leaning back against her chest to try and ease the strain on his lungs. The laudanum had made him so disoriented, so drowsy, that even the fever and the pain of his wounds wasn’t causing him to shift around much anymore. He was near on catatonic, the only sign he was still there at all being the occasional mutterings and the clenching of his fists.

Eventually, Essi started humming again, remembering it had eased him a bit on the clifftops. Sayri was finished her stitching now, and was smearing some sort of clear paste over the wound. Geralt’s fingers had relaxed, now that he was no longer in as much pain from the needle entering and exiting his body, sewing together broken flesh. As Essi hummed, half caught dreaming in the story the ballad told, his eyes stopped wandering, and he finally relaxed in her arms. Even the fitful coughing stopped, making way instead for rattling, aching breaths. Sayri sat back, having finished spreading the paste and wrapping clean bandages around his side, and wiped a hand across her brown. Her curly hair was plastered to her forehead, child’s eyes downturned and exhausted, rimmed with red and black shadows.

“You should go get some rest,” Essi told her kindly, remembering that Sayri was still a child, still incredibly young and easily tired, “I can stay with him, if you tell me what I need to do.”

Sayri rubbed tiredly at her eyes with the back of a bloodied hand, yawning sweetly.

“Just stay with him, be there when he wakes. I’ve really no idea how he may wake from a drugged sleep, based on how he reacted to the drug being given to him; try to keep him calm so he doesn’t tear any stitches. Otherwise, keep him cool and try to get the fever down. If he says he’s cold, give him blankets, but make sure not to leave them on for too long. I’ll leave some peppermint tea to help with the cough. If you can afford it, eucalyptus will also help clear his lungs.”

Essi nodded, already knowing there would be no way her father would be able to afford eucalyptus leaves, an expensive import reserved for local nobles. But she had made do with what she had before. Surely, if the little she had gleaned about Witchers was true, Geralt’s stronger constitution would help him pull through.

Sayri had slipped out so silently that Essi had to keep herself from starting aggressively when she looked up and realized the little girl was gone. Part of her was relieved. Sayri was strange, otherworldly. She had an aura about her that suggested that she knew things far beyond what anyone her age ought to. Essi allowed herself a brief second to muse as to why Sayri hadn’t simply used the great magic she was said to possess to send Geralt into a healing sleep, but she troubled herself with it very little. Perhaps the girl had simply been tired. 

\----

The next time Geralt awoke, his head was aching horrifically, the kind of ache he only experienced after taking a bad potion or being drugged. It pounded behind his eyes; even the slightest movement of his eyelids or eyeballs caused him to ache. He wanted to roll over and bury his face in the pillow, but the mere idea that he had been drugged was enough to cause him to claw the rest of the way to wakefulness. People who drugged him were usually not amenable to him taking time to recover his senses or rest.

When he blinked his eyes open, the light was so blinding he had to slam them back shut with a groan. At this noise, the was a gasping snore from beside him, and a soft thud followed by another groan, leading Geralt to believe that someone must have been sleeping next to him. He hadn’t the slightest idea why, though. Who would bother to sit up with him through the night, especially after he had been drugged? Dragging a hand up to shield his eyes, and with considerably more care, he tried again.

The room swirled before him, and he could barely make out a single candle through his bleary eyes, as well as shape moving hazily at the edge of his vision. Normally, this would have been a cause for alarm, especially because he hadn’t the faintest idea where he was or how he had ended up here. However, his mind was slow, exhausted, barely able to form a coherent thought beyond the fact that he was thirsty, feverishly hot, and in a good deal of pain which seemed to be radiating from his back and side. Geralt opened his mouth, with the intention of asking for some water, but the moment he took in a deep breath, it felt as though there were rocks shifting in his lungs. With a horrifying crack, he felt himself begin to cough, which in turn aggravated the aching wounds on his side. His vision began to darken, and he tried to brace himself on a hand, but his arms were too weak.

As his vision started to darken, Geralt felt himself being lifted and supported up a bit, easing the strain on his lungs but making his head spin. He gasped for breath, but every breath just brought on more irritation in his lungs. Eventually, he sagged back, resigned to taking shallow breaths for the foreseeable future. His eyes drooped shut, and he felt exhausted. One hand ventured to his aching side, finding it covered in thick bandages.

“There you are,” a voice said, although he felt it as much as heard it, a musical vibration from the softness he was leaning against, and he belatedly realized that someone was sitting behind him, supporting him through his coughing, “How are you feeling? As in, are you feeling like you’re about to die, or only like you took a swim through some rocky cliffs?”

Geralt thought this was probably supposed to be a weak attempt at humour, but it was counteracted drastically by the blatant worry he could detect in the speaker’s voice. He must have nearly died.

“Fuck…” he croaked, his voice barely more than a hoarse whisper, “What happened?”

Geralt had dealt with enough fevers in his life to recognize that this period of lucidity was probably going to be short lived, and quickly replaced with more hours of delirious fever dreams. He was determined to glean as much information about where he was while he was still lucid enough to understand it.

“You fought the sea witches, remember? By the spires, on the black sand beach. Ered and I rode back into town with you, and we had someone come and tend your wounds. You can stay here as long as you need.”

The voice was gentle, musical, and made Geralt feel surprisingly comfortable. Normally, not being able to see someone who was speaking, especially when he was so vulnerable, would have sent him lunging for either his swords or a handy flower vase. He didn’t know who Ered was, and had only a vague memory of fighting next to a tall black spire. He had thought perhaps that was all a fever dream…he vaguely remembered Renfri had been here as well, but he was unsure whether he could trust his memory at this point. Clearly, reality and dreams were blending together, and Geralt was too exhausted to try to separate one from the other right now. He could feel the heat of the fever encroaching on his mind again, even as his limbs trembled and shivered. He wasn’t even sure if he was hot or cold, and feeling both simultaneously was too much for his exhausted mind to process. 

“Do you want a blanket? You’re shivering, and the healer said I could let you warm up a bit, so long as you don’t overheat.”

Geralt nodded, wondering what had happened to his side. The muscles in his neck refused to cooperate; he could barely move his head. He was loathe to discover what the state of the rest of his limbs was. A problem for when he was feeling a bit less ill, he decided. Right now, the simple feeling of alleviation in his trembling body when the person draped a warm wool blanket over him was enough. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he had had a dry blanket that was actually enough to keep him warm. Very long ago, he thought. Before the Path had taken him to Blaviken.

He curled up a bit, trying to be gentle on his aching side and failing miserably, letting out a small groan when aching agony shot through both that and his back in three parallel strips. The person, whoever she was, reached down with gentle hands and helped him roll onto his side, so he would neither aggravate his wounded side nor keep his lungs from functioning as well as they could.

“My thanks,” Geralt sighed as he allowed his eyes to fall shut again, already feeling bits of confused delirium working their way back into his mind again, “’S been a long time…since I was warm.”

A gentle hand brushed a few stray locks of sweaty hair away from Geralt’s face, and he fell asleep trying to remember the way sun had felt on his skin. The false sun of Stregobor’s tower, the last warmth he had felt before Renfri, and the darkness he travelled in now.

\----

It was night now. Geralt could taste it more than tell, since he was currently lacking the energy to open his eyes more than the smallest amount. Not that opening his eyes did much good, anyways; everything was blurry and shifted in time with his beating heart, a side effect of his fevered brain. But the smell of the night was very easily identified, especially here on the coast. The saltiness of the air, combined with the heady scent of ale and the freshness that comes after an evening rain. There had been a time when Geralt had quite liked this smell. It was nice, to wake in the middle of the night and breathe in the fresh air, clean and clear and free of the detritus that so often assaulted his sensitive nose when he was on a hunt. However, even if Geralt could have breathed in the night air without coughing and choking, there was a heaviness tonight. A weight on his chest that had nothing to do with the sickness sitting in his lungs and everything to do with the fact that he was now aware enough to understand that he had dragged yet more innocent people into his destructive path of bodies and fear. Essi’s family. Essi and Ered, who had dragged him back to Isa even though it had been made perfectly clear that the alderman would persecute anyone who dared to sow fear in his town by hiring a Witcher.

Geralt knew what he had to do, as much as his body protested, begging him to stay and rest, just for a little longer. He knew he was not healed, nowhere near it. His body was running a high fever, and he was ill, a side effect of too many sleepless nights. And there was a deep pain radiating from his side, hot and sickening. Whatever had cut him must have sliced clean through his pectoral and oblique muscles; making it difficult for him to move his arms and neck. But Essi didn’t appear to be here; he couldn’t hear her breathing. In fact, the whole inn was silent, which was odd, even for this hour.

Geralt peeled his eyes open, body and head protesting the whole time. The remaining effects of whatever he had been drugged with, presumably to help him sleep, still made his eyes ache abominably. Using his good arm, Geralt pushed himself upright, trembling and drawing the blanket around his shoulders, realizing his chest was bare. The bandages around his chest were starting to soak through with blood. He wasn’t sure how far away from Isa he would be able to make it before he collapsed, but he had to try. There was no chance, no way in any Heaven or Hell that Geralt was going to allow Essi to become his next Renfri. His next casualty. Heat from the fever rolled through him, and he tossed off the blanket again, groaning as the movement jarred the wounds in his side. He realized there was also a bandage wrapped around his leg which pained him a good deal now he was sitting. Frustrated at his own weakness, Geralt took a moment to catch his hitching breath, feeling decidedly unwell and wishing greatly to simply lie back down in bed and sleep. He cradled his aching head in one hand, and wrapped his other arm around his wounded side.

He stayed that way for a while, gasping, hoping no one would awaken and hear his rattling breaths. It would be all to easy to convince him to stay, as much as he knew he needed to go. He didn’t hear anyone enter, didn’t hear any footsteps. The inn remained suspiciously quiet, in an eerie way that Geralt couldn’t quite put his finger on. He was in so much pain just sitting, sagging against the headboard, that he didn’t pay the silence much mind. It must just be his fever, making him feel unsettled. There had been a similar feeling after the Trials, Geralt remembered, when he had been fevered and Vesemir had wrapped a cloth around his sensitive eyes to protect them from the light. Everything had felt wrong, the way the sheets scratched as his sensitive skin, the way the birds sang, all of it. Geralt supposed that feeling had never really gone away, especially not since his second round of Trials. He had just grown accustomed to the unsettling level of detail with which he experienced the world. However, now, fevered and ill as he was, it was almost too much to bear. The silence pressed in on him, made him feel nauseous. His lungs grated, his leg throbbed, and he wanted nothing more than to lie down and go back to sleep, to let Essi wake him in the morning, perhaps bring him a piece of bread or some soup if he was feeling well enough to eat it. Geralt couldn’t remember the last time he had even hoped someone would do that for him. Witchers were not cared for. They were undeserving of tenderness, but now, hurting from Blaviken and the exhaustion that had followed, Geralt wanted nothing more than to have that. Just once. And if it hadn’t been for Blaviken, he thought, he would have stayed. Without a second thought. He may have ignored his body’s needs before, but even he could recognize that pushing it much further would result in very serious illness, if not death. And yet, he couldn’t stay. These people had done enough for him helped him when he was injured. He had to leave before he caused them harm in return.

Bracing himself, Geralt pushed his aching head out of the palm of his hand, trying to breathe evenly to keep himself from coughing. In the eerie silence, he felt as though even the slightest noise might awaken someone, someone who would stop him from doing what needed to be done. He blinked blearily; the room was spinning around him. It made him feel sick, and he was so fucking cold. He realized with disappointment that he hadn’t even had time to buy a new cloak, and that now he would have to wait until the next town he came across before he bought one. Holding his aching side, leaning heavily on the bed frame, he tried to stand, groaning as he felt the uncomfortable, hot pull of stitches in his fevered skin. At this point, Geralt was unsure if he would even make it out the door, let alone to the stables and onto Roach. Taking a steadying breath, he turned himself towards the door, realizing he was forgetting his shirt but feeling so fevered he barely cared anymore. The colours were blending together, his dizziness becoming more extreme and he could feel coughs beginning to take root in his ailing lungs. He look up, focused, determined to get himself out of the door and out of this thrice-damned town before he could cause anymore harm.

He looked up, right into Renfri’s warm, brown, dead eyes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm so sorry, but it just seemed like such a perfect place to stop. There should be a new update coming within the next week, thank you so much again for all your kind comments. There's nothing like a sweet comment in my inbox to make me feel inspire to keep writing! I'm also going to be posting a collection of my little Tumblr drabbles on here later this week (if you wanna check out my Tumblr, I love doing prompts! I'm aloe-casia)
> 
> I'm feeling a little insecure about this chapter, so please let me know if there's anything I should change or fix up to make it better. I really appreciate all the feedback.
> 
> Anyways, hope you're all staying safe and doing well out there. Take care ❤️


	4. Let Go

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Geralt deals with some fears relating to Renfri and who he is, and tries to understand exactly what happened to him. Essi and Ered confront some long-hidden feelings regarding Essi's future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much to the absolutely incredible Roachisjudgingyou for taking the time to beta read this story! I'm so incredibly excited to have a beta, and their suggestions were a huge part of making this chapter a readable work. So thank you, thank you, than you from the bottom of my heart.
> 
> In other news, I'm planning one more chapter here, perhaps with a sequel once whump week is over. I'm going on vacation in July, so I'm trying to get all my work done for whump week now (on an unrelated note, I'm SO looking forwards to reading everyone else's stuff for this).
> 
> Enjoy!

Geralt was reeling; his head was spinning and he couldn’t think straight. His wounds ached and pulled, and he was so dizzy, and still Renfri stared down at him, unmoving. Her brown hair shifted and swirled around her head as though she was floating under water, and her face was pale. But even more horrifying were her hands. The nails were a deep blueish hue, similar to what Geralt was used to seeing on the corpses that so often occupied his profession. The fingers, however, were slipping, the skin pulled up to the nails, rolled up slightly as though it had lost purchase on her bones. Geralt remembered hearing of such a phenomenon from one of his brothers back at Kaer Morhen, who had seen it on a dead child who had been killed by a water spirit. He had described, with a haunted look, the way the little girl’s skin had slowly begun to slip on her bones, sliding around as though it were no more than clothing that she wore. But it was even more horrifying now, on Renfri, as a fever burned under Geralt’s aching skin.

“What…what are you doing here?” He gasped, mouth struggling to form words and sounds, fighting for purchase against his fever and the way his lungs grated in his chest.

She didn’t answer, but her lips parted a bit, as though she was trying to gasp for air. A blue hand lifted, fingers spread. Geralt lifted his own, mirroring her, a sickly parody of the way he had mirrored her in battle moments before he had taken the life from her body. He reached out, wondering idly if perhaps he could touch her. But his hand passed through hers with a breath of icy air, and in a moment Geralt realized he had both overtaxed and overbalanced himself. His side was aching, and he had forgotten he had also sustained an injury to his leg. In his vain hope to reach out to Renfri, to give her something, something to warm her, he had leaned too far forwards. Now, as Geralt came back to himself, Renfri disappearing behind him, he found himself pitching head first towards the floor. He was too ill, too confused to even understand that he was falling. He tried to put out a hand to catch himself, but it was too late, and his reflexes were far too slow. His head smacked into the wooden floorboards, and pain exploded all through his side. His lungs burned.

There was a series of thumping footsteps on the stairs, which Geralt was only able to recognize through the vibrations he felt in the floorboards. His ears were ringing so loudly it was impossible to hear anything else. The steps approached, and a gentle hand came to rest on his back. He gasped, feeling simultaneously like he might vomit, cough, or faint. He was sure the owner of the hand was speaking to him, he could feel the vibrations in the air. He tried to roll onto his back to see who it was, but his arms were too weak. Sounds were returning now, and Geralt could make out a soft voice. It took all his energy to simply parse and understand what it said.

“What did you do to yourself? How in Hell did you even manage to get out of bed? When I left you were so weak you could barely open your eyes.”

“Had…had to get out.” Geralt slurred, feeling dizzy and confused. He couldn’t remember getting out of bed, just that he very much needed to, that he couldn’t stay here, and that it was something to do with Renfri.

“Well you’re not going anywhere today, or for quite a few days,” the voice carried a hint of a smile, which Geralt thought was odd, “Let’s get you settled back in bed; you must be in a lot of pain lying there on the floor. It looks like you’ve bled through your bandages as well, I’ll give you something for the pain and then change them while you’re sleeping.”

Geralt felt a thrill of panic. He had woken drugged not too long ago, and he didn’t think he could handle being drugged into oblivion again right now. He was already so confused, so sick. He was losing his grip on what was real; the fever taking over his mind. Any hallucinogenics right now would be more than his exhausted mind could take. He tried to shake his head, but only managed a slight twitch before the world began to spin, the floorboards under his face drifting in and out of focus. A weak, wet cough escaped his exhausted lungs.

“Don’t worry,” the voice soothed softly, small hands wrapping underneath him to lift him into a slumped sitting position, “I know the laudanum made you more ill. I won’t give you anything strong.”

Geralt slumped with relief, although he was already almost completely dependent on the person holding him up. His head slid sideways, and he caught an up-close glimpse of blue dyed cotton before his eyes slid shut. That was a dress Geralt had seen before, although his aching brain couldn’t make sense of where he had seen it. It was all he could do to keep his head lying on the person’s shoulder, instead of just letting go completely and allowing it to fall backwards.

“Can you help me get you back over to the bed? I’m not sure I can carry you there on my own.”

Testing his weight, Geralt highly doubted it. He was trembling and weak; whatever illness he had caught on the coast was wrecking his body and burning him with fever. Even his neck ached when he tried to hold it up, and his vision was too blurry to even seek out where the bed was. He shook his head, and made a noise that was supposed to be a no, but ended up coming out more as a weak groan. The person above him sighed.

“I’m going to go get Ered. He’s in the kitchen right now, so I might be a few minutes. Are you cold? Should I leave you with a blanket?”

Geralt had a vague memory of someone named Ered, but he couldn’t place the name or the face at the moment. He was, however, very cold. He couldn’t remember exactly when this room had turned more glacial than Kaer Morhen, but it was now. He nodded gratefully at the offer of a blanket, and then closed his eyes as the person who had been speaking lowered him back onto the floor. The change in altitude was very disagreeable, and his head spun. There was a brief rustling, and then the person returned, and draped a blanket overtop of him. It did very little to relieve the cold; Geralt felt as though the chills were coming from inside him. He was trembling so hard his teeth clacked together. The person also lifted his head a bit to drink something, and Geralt caught a glimpse of blonde curls and bright blue eyes. Once again, he couldn’t place the face, but he knew he had seen it somewhere before. The liquid he managed to swallow (if he had been more aware, he would probably have been mortified to feel the rest of it dripping down his chin and neck) was sweet, and not long after the world began to blur. Brownish hues and the bright red from the small fire crackling in the corner swirled together as Geralt tried to focus on drawing breath through lungs that felt as though they had been filled with seawater. When he did finally fall asleep, he wasn’t truly aware when reality slipped into dreams.

\----

Essi took the stairs down to the kitchen two at a time, her heart pounding. She didn’t know much about Witchers, but from what she had gleaned Geralt should already be well on his way to healing, not getting worse. She was frightened. Butcher or not, she didn’t want to be responsible for the death of the man who had saved Isa’s trade. Not to mention, the Witcher had grown on her. He was stupid, granted. Anyone who possessed a modicum of self-preservation and intelligence would not have undertaken the hunt for the sea witches half-dead. However, he was kind, and she kept thinking back to the night when he had listened to her play in the empty common room. Normally, someone else listening to Essi sing would have made her feel humiliated and anxious. The world had no time for dreamers and artists, especially not here on the coast where life was so hard. But she had appreciated his silence, his lack of comment. Clearly, there was more going on in him than met the eye.

The kitchens were boiling hot, even in the middle of winter. Pots of stew simmered and bubbled over the two large cooking fires, and Ered and the two women who had been hired on to help him were each bent over their respective peeling or stirring tasks. Since the wars, Ered had found solace here, Essi knew. Like riding, it was something to take his mind off the horrors that always seemed to occupy his waking mind, and often his sleeping mind as well. He never got the wild eyed, panicked look that haunted him on the streets when he worked in here. It made Essi hate herself for dragging him away from his task to another one that would surely dredge up unpleasant memories. However, their father was out, buying food at the market, and there was no one else in the inn strong enough to help Essi move Geralt. And they couldn’t very well leave the poor man lying face-down on the floor, insensible though he was.

Brushing away a curl that had become plastered to her face by the heat that blasted through the kitchen doors, Essi approached her brother. She tried to be noisy enough that she wouldn’t startle him on her way over, but the bubbling pots and calls of patrons in the main inn were overpoweringly noisy. When she laid a hand on his shoulder, he whipped around so fast he nearly gutted her with his kitchen knife. Sweaty blonde hair was plastered to his face and the back of his neck, and his eyes were a bit wild. Essi gulped. No matter how many times he wheeled on her like this, she would never get used to feeling fear at the sight of her own brother. But when his expression turned from anger to guilt, eyes downcast, she quickly erased all traces of fear from her face. Her fear at something he could not control would do neither of them any good.

“I’m sorry I frightened you,” Essi practically had to yell over the steaming racket, “But I need your help. He’s delirious, and I can’t get him back into bed on my own.”

A slight flash of fear passed through Ered’s blue eyes as he set down his knife. Essi hoped her expression would convey how sorry she was. No part of her wanted to expose him to the evil memories again. There was so much fear, so much trauma locked away in his broken mind. From past experience, Essi knew that the mere sight of an injured man could send Ered into a state where he would not eat, sleep or talk of his own volition, sometimes for weeks on end. There was very little she could do for him once he got that way. However, she also couldn’t just leave Geralt lying on the floor until her father or another one of the men who worked in the stables returned. She took his hand in her own and squeezed it gently as she led him out of the oppressive heat of the kitchen and up the back staircase.

“What happened?” Ered finally asked when they had nearly reached the top of the stairs. He had not let go of Essi’s hand.

“I don’t know. I came in and he’d fallen on the floor, and he was muttering names to himself, over and over in his sleep. I don’t know what’s wrong with him, Ered. He should at least be beginning to recover by now, if the stories about Witchers are true. But he only seems to be getting worse.”

Ered stopped at the top of the stairs and leaned against the wall, scrubbing a red hand over his sweaty face. He looked exhausted.

“I think you and I both know why he’s not getting better. He’s the white haired Witcher, the one who killed all those people up North in Blaviken. Whatever happened there, it’s haunting him, keeping him from healing. Sometimes, when the turmoil in the mind is too strong, the body simply can’t muster the energy to heal itself. Whatever he’s experiencing, he needs to work through it before his body can start to heal.”

Essi knew Ered was probably speaking from personal experience, and she was loathe to question him further. But she felt a responsibility to Geralt now. After all, they were the ones who had sent him on the hunt. She had known full well he was ill when they had boarded the Darklady to go to the black sand beach.

“Is there any way we can help him? Work through it, I mean.”

Ered shook his head.

“Just stay with him. Men rarely ever ask for what they need, and my guess would be Witchers even less so. But it will help to know there’s someone there nonetheless.”

Essi resisted the urge to roll her eyes and Ered pushed himself off the wall and continued down the hallway. There were few things more infuriating than men and their stubborn refusal to ask for help. If Ered had been able to ask for help upon his return from the wars, Essi had a distinct feeling their lives would be very different. Perhaps, she could go to Oxenfurt and study instead of staying here and watching over him. Men were victims of their own stupidity. She only hoped Geralt would not die over his.

\----

By the time they had finished pulling the Witcher’s unconscious body back into the bed, Ered was sweating heavily; Essi could see it dripping down his face. She also knew her brother was more than strong enough to lift Geralt without breaking a sweat, but she decided not to push the matter. Not so soon after Ered had spoken to her about men being unable to ask for help. She couldn’t help but feel as though it had been a message for her as well. Ered felt guilt for tying her down here, Essi knew that. He would never ask for, nor accept her help when he knew she had bigger dreams on her own.

He left the room with slumped shoulders, after laying a hand on Essi’s shoulder and reminding her to get some rest. For her part, Essi curled up in a chair next to Geralt’s bed, watching the man shiver and tremble in his sleep. He was not muttering anymore, but Essi believed that had more to do with the valerian she had given him than any real improvement. His breath rattled in his lungs, and every few moments he would stop his laboured breathing to cough harshly, body rearing with each movement. She inched closer, and grasped his shoulders, trying to keep him still. The wound in his side was still bleeding and was in desperate need of new bandages, but Essi wanted to wait until his coughing calmed a little before she took the bandages off. She would never forgive herself if he made it all this way only to rip his stitches and bleed out due to her own stupidity.

Eventually, the coughing calmed to rattling breaths. Essi tried to get some water into him, but he spluttered and coughed, and most of it dripped down his chin. Trying to reassure herself that he was probably not yet totally dehydrated, she focused now on the bandages. Upon peeling back the first few layers, Essi discovered that the last few rounds of bandages were firmly stuck to Geralt’s skin. She palmed her forehead frustratedly, feeling as though everything that could possibly go wrong was. Hoping he would not awaken, and monologuing mostly to keep herself from becoming distracted by her own worry, Essi retrieved a bowl of water and went about the rotten work.

“I’m so sorry I have to do this,” she said tiredly as she wiped warm water over the crusted bandages, “I don’t want to hurt you. You’ll tell me if it hurts, won’t you? I know it’s unlikely that it won’t, and there’s not much I can do about it, but you should still tell me. Don’t be like Ered said you would be. I don’t think my mind will survive another ridiculous man and and his fucking scruples dying or becoming irreparably damaged on my watch. Maybe Witchers are smarter than the men who live here. But what you’ve shown me so far doesn’t really convince me of that. Going off to fight sea witches when you were already half-dead with illness and exhaustion. Not even your mutations can save you from your own stupidity, it seems.”

Geralt remained unresponsive, firmly pulled under by the valerian root Essi had administered. She had a feeling he would have either had the good graces to look sheepish or given her a good hard slap had he been conscious, though she was not eager to find out. The bandages were less crusted on now, but Essi was still frightened to pull them off for fear of pulling the stitches. She continued bathing them in water until the bed was soaked; leaving a pale pink stain from the blood still flowing freely. Steeling herself, Essi tried to pull the bandages away as gently and quickly as she could. Ered had once told her, in the days when he was training to be a healer in the army, that you must never pull bandages away slowly, lest you cause more damage. Grimacing, Essi tried to keep her gag reflex under control as she pulled away bandages, clotted blood, and a good deal of skin from the wound. Underneath, the thick black stitches stood out prominently, a gruesome line in amongst the red, wounded skin. Geralt shifted a little in his sleep, hands weakly fisting at the sheets. His throat was working quickly, and Essi barely had time to prop him up and snatch up a bowl from the counter before he vomited, coughing and choking. Every time his chest tensed, more blood welled and leaked from the wound.

“Shhh,” Essi tried to be soothing, the way she remembered her mother doing for herself and Ered when they had been small, “You’ll feel better when this is done, I promise. We’ll get you comfortable and warm again.”

His hair was sticky with sweat and blood, and as Essi ran her fingers through it in a soothing motion she wondered how it had come to be that colour, trying to take her mind off the fact that she was holding him up as he coughed and heaved, all while not waking up. Surely he was not as old as the other white-haired men Essi knew. His face was youthful, under the dirt and grime. He looked barely more than twenty five. Essi’s heart ached. It always seemed to be the way with young men these days; made old before their time by trial and war. 

Eventually, Geralt’s coughing and vomiting slowed, and he slumped back against her, still out cold. Knowing his vomiting had likely been caused by the pain of removing the bandages, Essi approached her task with considerable reluctance, trying to be as gentle as possible. Though the bulk of the bandages were gone, there were still threads and bits of clotted blood stuck around the neat rows of stitches. Essi did her best to wipe them away with a damp rag, tensing every time Geralt stirred or groaned when she ventured too close to the wound. She spread some of the salve Sayri had left behind over the wound, barely daring to ghost her fingers over the stitches. Then, ever so slowly, she sat the Witcher up, leaning him back against her and wrapping bandages around his chest, which rattled with every breath. He stirred a bit, turning his face into her shoulder in a way that, in different circumstances, would have made Essi smile.

“All better now,” Essi cringed at her tone as she said it, unused to needing to be so overtly comforting, “Let’s get you comfortable so you can rest a bit now.”

Ever so carefully, Essi slid out from behind Geralt, feeling blood returning to her shoulders and hands as she did so. Doing her best to not allow him to thump down on the mattress, she adjusted the pillows, putting one under his wounded leg and making sure he was propped up enough to cough without choking. There was still fever burning in his skin, but Essi observed with some relief that it was no longer burning quite so brightly. She placed a cold cloth from a bucket by the fire over Geralt’s forehead, and curled up in a chair, lifting her boots up to rest at the foot of the bed.

\----

There was something vaguely cold on Geralt’s forehead as he swam back to consciousness, recognizing the familiar grogginess that came along with being administered valerian root. His side and back hurt, and he could feel the tight pull of stitches. He also had a horrific headache, probably to accompany the hitching rasp he felt with every breath. Blinking, he was relieved to discover that whoever had placed the cool cloth over his forehead had also had the foresight to cover his eyes. Geralt sighed, trying to take stock now that he was coherent enough to do so.

There must be a fairly deep gash in his side, which someone clearly stitched up while he was unconscious. Briefly, Geralt allowed himself to wonder who might have done that for him, who might have been willing to help him. His leg also throbbed, in time with his heartbeat, although the pain was far-away and indistinct. The most concerning part was the deep, rattling noise he can feel and hear at every breath, and the heat of the fever lurking beneath his skin. Whatever illness was festering in his body before he took on the contract for the witches has, without a doubt, come to a head. Geralt could barely take a breathe without feeling simultaneously like he needed to cough and vomit from the pain that would bring. The illness and injuries had clearly sapped whatever little energy his drugged sleep returned to him; the blankets more than enough to keep his arms pinned to the bed. 

Suppressing a frustrated growl at being so weak, Geralt just lay there, drifting between wakefulness and sleep. He couldn’t lift his hands to remove the cloth covering his eyes, and just tried to rest in the fact that if these people wanted to do him harm, they probably wouldn’t have sutured his wounds and wasted expensive herbs on him first. He hears the deep breathing of someone asleep beside him, with a clearly feminine tone to the breath. Essi, he thinks. He remembers a woman named Essi before he was wounded, and her voice sounded like the breaths coming from the person beside him now. She’s probably had a long day, if she found him and sutured his wounds. Desperately, he tried to keep his coughing at bay so as not to wake her.

However, eventually, Geralt took a breath that was a bit too deep, and it hitched forcefully in his lungs, pushing the air back up and out and bringing a mellow, horrendous taste to his mouth. His whole body tensed, and he could feel the stitches pulling incredibly painfully in his side. Too weak to roll over, he did his best to just let it wash over him, trying not to lose his dignity entirely and whimper in pain. Beside him, the weight shifted on the bed, and he felt himself being lifted up, the cloth being removed from his face.

“Great Goddess, you should have woken me,” a voice which Geralt can now connect to Essi admonishes, “You don’t need to just lie there all by yourself, in pain and trying to keep from coughing. There’s things I can do to help you, you know.”

Slowly blinking his eyes against what feels like a far too bright room, Geralt allows Essi’s pale face to swim into his vision.

“You seem a bit better,” she states, sounding very relieved, “And your fever is going down. Now we just need to get rid of that cough. Should I go get you some tea, or would you like something for the pain and to help you sleep again?”

Geralt considered. On one hand, he knew that he should eat. His body had been severely depleted before he arrived in Isa, and after an injury it would be suffering from that depletion even more. However, the merest thought of drinking tea or broth made him want to turn around and vomit over the edge of the bed. The second option was equally as unappealing, though. Having spent the better part of the last day and night drugged and asleep, Geralt craved wakefulness, even just for a bit. Sleeping for too long made him feel disoriented and sick, especially when he was injured.

“Stay…for a bit?” He asked, although he himself was unsure if he was talking more about Essi or himself. However, she seemed to understand, leaning back against the chair and putting her boots back up against the base of the bed.

“At least let me get some water for your throat. You sound half-drowned; it can’t be pleasant to talk while you’re feeling like that.”

Reluctantly, Geralt allowed her to tip some water into his mouth. He wondered again why she was helping him. There was a vague memory buried in his subconscious of Essi figuring out who he was, what he’d done in Blaviken. Why, after knowing that, would she stay? Perhaps it was best to leave him to Renfri, who he also had a vague recollection of encountering. She would mete out justice accordingly.

“Why…why are you here?” Geralt felt his mouth making the words without real permission from his brain. Another disconnect thanks to the fever, he presumed. 

Essi laughed a little bit, bringing a small bit of brightness to her tired face, lifting the bags under her eyes a bit. She looked a right mess, hair sticking out and plastered to her forehead with sweat, which her dress was also stained with, eyes dull with exhaustion.

“What do you mean? Here, in this Sphere? In Isa? In this room? Even ill and injured, you ask difficult questions, Geralt of Rivia.”

“With me.”

“I’ve told you this before, at the cliffs. You seem to be labouring under some sort of delusion that because of what happened at Blaviken, you’re undeserving of help, and believe me when I say you’re not the first person I’ve encountered who’s felt this way. I may be from a small city, but I know enough about the world to know that nothing is ever as simple as it seems. Whatever happened at Blaviken, I expect it was much more complicated than you barging into a marketplace and slaughtering innocent people going about their daily business. I’ve seen you fight. I’ve seen you offer up your life even when it was made clear your services were not wanted by the alderman. You dealt with our witches, arguably saved our whole city from starving. There shouldn’t be any question as to why I’m here with you. Besides, I have several idiot men to look after in my life already. What’s taking on one more for a few weeks?”

Geralt’s eyes kept drifting shut, and he wasn’t completely sure he understood what Essi had said, not in its entirety anyways. He had never encountered someone who was willing to forgive as openly before. Some people were tolerant of him, because he could help them. But always on the Path, Geralt felt as though he was one bad choice away from having his head bashed in by superstitious villagers. There was something refreshing about Essi’s openness, her blunt honesty. In a way, he was reminded of his brothers in Kaer Morhen.

“The witches?” He asked, unable to continue talking about such a taxing subject. There was a weight lifted from his chest, though. He felt absolved.

“Gone. Two rotting at the top of the spires, the other one we assume is feeding the fish. You did well, white hair.”

Geralt nodded, feeling himself beginning to grow cold and tired once again. His whole body was exhausted and ached, and he was trembling with the simple effort it took to keep his eyes open and his mind alert. He felt his whole body beginning to shiver.

“I shouldn’t keep you talking,” Essi looked a bit disgusted with herself, “You’re feverish and very weak. Should I get you anything to eat, or should I get some blankets and leave you in peace?”

Essi was persistent, Geralt would give her that, and he was in no state to argue with her or resist her right now. However, as before, the mere thought of food made his stomach turn. He shook his head weakly.

“Blankets?” Geralt felt horrified by his own weakness. If Vesemir could see him now, begging blankets from a strange woman after he had become ill due to his own negligence, he would beat him within an inch of his life. However, Vesemir was not here, and Essi busied herself with retrieving several blankets from what Geralt assumed was a wardrobe in the corner of the room. His vision was still blurry and skewed.

After a minute or so of rummaging, and a good bit of cursing which made Geralt smile in a way he never would have had he been fully in possession of his faculties, Essi returned with a warm wool blanket. Gently, she eased Geralt up and wrapped him up in it, leaving him sighing with relief. He hadn’t realized how very cold he had been.

“Valerian?” Essi asked softly, seeing Geralt’s eyes were beginning to go blurry and unfocused.

“C’n sleep…by myself,” Geralt had already almost drifted off, so relieved by the warmth that surrounded him. Essi nodded, and brushed a stray bit of hair away from Geralt’s face, a gesture the Witcher had not experienced since he had been a young child.

“Very well. I may be downstairs when you wake; it’s nearly dinner time. But I’ll come back to check on you as often as I can. And I’ll build up the fire before I go, to keep you warm. You’ve lost a lot of blood, I’m not surprised you’re cold.”

Geralt found himself barely able to blink, and he slowly released his grip on consciousness and let himself to fall into a blessed, un-drugged rest. 

\----

That night, Essi found Ered sitting on the back step of the inn, outside the kitchen. He was holding a roll of fisstech loosely in one hand, but it was still full. His arms were wrapped around his legs, and he was rocking slowly back and forth.

Essi approached him cautiously, afraid to touch him. She had learned the hard way what happened when she touched him in a moment of vulnerability.

“You aren’t going to use that, are you?” She asked softly, clenching her teeth with the effort it took to keep herself from ripping the fisstech out of Ered’s hand. He twitched a bit and looked up at her with eyes that were lost, somewhere faraway. His hand unclenched and the roll fell onto the cobbles. Sighing a little, Essi settled herself next to him, mirroring his pose and looking out into the street. The lamps were lit, casting small pools of light onto the clean cobbled streets every few metres. The air was silent. Somewhere far away, a gull called, harsh against the distant pounding of the surf.

“I’m sorry I asked you to help me today. I know seeing wounded men makes you remember things you would rather forget…” Essi started, but Ered waved his hand at her.

“It’s not that. He’ll heal. Most of my men didn’t. Tonight, I’m thinking about you.”

Essi cocked her head, inviting him to continue. She hadn’t heard her brother speak so much in a long time, but her heart sank at the thought that she was the one who had put him in this state, inadvertently or otherwise.

“I see the way your eyes light up every time a foreigner enters the inn, stinking of intrigue and adventure and heartache,” Ered began, each of his words heavy as the pounding of a gavel, “It was the same way with that Witcher. You ache for something more, Essi. You dream of a place where you can play your lute, where you can sing your ballads and write what’s in your heart. You have since you were a little girl. And now you’re trapped here, in a coast town in the middle of nowhere, with a broken brother who hasn’t been able to let you go.”

Essi opened her mouth to speak, her heart pounding so hard she felt as though her ribs might burst, but Ered forged on.

“I’m tired of being the one thing that holds you here. I’m tired of watching you play alone by the fire. I want you to go play somewhere else, somewhere where all the lords and ladies you imagined can hear you. Every time you watch someone leave the gates of Isa and travel to a place you’ve heard of but believe you’ll never go, I’m reminded again that you’re just someone else I’ve failed. Maybe not allowed to die. Not yet, at least. But I can’t let you stay here to take care of me. You need to go.”

Essi’s voice was caught in her throat, and her eyes stung with tears. She had known that maybe, someday, this was coming. Ered wasn’t stupid. He could see as clearly as any other man the longing in her face when she imagined something greater. But she was afraid of what would become of him, incapacitated by his memories, alone in Isa.

“Ered, I can’t.”

Ered turned his head away, clearly through with the conversation, and wrapped his arms back around his knees.

“You need to be like him. That Witcher. He reeks of adventure and sadness and beauty and the wonder of the world. He’s seen pain, I can tell, but he’s strong. Stronger than someone like me, who was broken by it. You’re strong too. You could have the adventure and the beauty and the wonder, and you could sing it all and see the world. There’s no reason for you to stay here anymore.”

Essi shuffled in closer to him and laid her head on his shoulder. The waves pounded in the distance, and she could hear the seagulls beginning to rouse. Soon, the golden light would be spilling over the cliffs, but Essi didn’t want it to. She didn’t want to tell Ered that her mind was made up, from the moment he freed her. Didn’t want him to know that everything he thought of her, everything he was afraid to admit, was true. She needed to leave. She needed something more. She would stay until the Witcher was healed; she had grown fond of him and Ered couldn’t do that on his own. Then she would pack her things and go, to Oxenfurt perhaps, or Cintra. Take her lute and be gone, never come back, because if she did she could never look Ered in the eyes again. The brother she would abandon at the slightest thought of freedom, even though it was clear he still needed her.

Ered wrapped an arm around Essi’s shoulder, and her tears dripped onto his wool doublet as the sun breached the horizon.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> My favourite thing is getting comment and kudos emails, so even if it's just a heart, something you didn't like or something that worked for you, please let me know!
> 
> Sending love <3


	5. Flight

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Essi and Ered confront their demons. Geralt gets some much-needed reassurance, and learns he is deserving of much more.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And so we come to the end! Thank you so much to RoachIsJudgingYou, my incredible beta, for reviewing the last few chapters of this and removing the typos that were absolutely RIFE throughout this piece. I've so incredibly enjoyed writing this, it's definitely my favourite story I've written to date, and it wouldn't have been possible without all of your support and kind words. I may have plans for a sequel, but I kind of like where I've left it here so we'll have to see.
> 
> Next up in my writing...Geralt Whump Week, which I'm currently working on. So keep an eye out for that. As always, it means the world to me to hear what you liked, what you didn't like, what worked for you. Your comments and kudos and everything else mean the world to me. Thank you so much for taking the time to read my ravings.

Fire crackled merrily in the hearth, drowning out the sound of the rain pattering on the windows outside. It had been raining incessantly the last couple of days; the coast was absolutely drenched and, from what Essi said, the seas were swollen onto the beaches and on some places they had overrun the weirs and docks. Not for the first time, Geralt found himself feeling incredibly grateful he had somewhere dry to stay. He was loathe to think of what state he might be in had he been turned away from the town, especially after completing the contract for the sea witches. Even inside, somewhere warm and relatively safe, Geralt was very ill. It had been nigh on a week since the contract at the black sand beaches, and while he had greatly recovered from his state during the first few days, he was weak and ill, and the wound in his side pained him. This morning, when he blinked awake, his skin burned a bit less with fever, and the constant headache he had suffered from was lessened a bit, though not entirely. Still exhausted, Geralt scrubbed a trembling hand over his face. It was prickly with stubble, and to add insult to injury it itched, pulsing in time with the closing wounds on his side. Too tired to do much more than roll gingerly on his side, Geralt simply lay and watched the rain drip down the window pane, waved with age, glad that he was separated from it. The soft sound of the fire had almost lulled him back to sleep when he heard footsteps ascending the staircase. Over the past few days, he had become adept at recognizing the various steps of the people who frequented the inn, a skill which he had never possessed outside of Kaer Morhen before and that made him uncomfortable. He was becoming too familiar with being here, with resting. Still, he was glad it was Essi that was coming up the stairs. Her company was pleasant, and she always brought him freshly baked bread for breakfast, a luxury he had not experienced since his Trials.

As always, before she entered, Essi knocked on the door and waited for a few moments. Geralt wondered where she had come by such a habit. He appreciated it; being barged in on while he was wounded and incapacitated made his skin crawl. However, he knew very few people who would think of such a thing, let alone understand enough to actually employ the strategy on him.

“Morning,” she smiled softly; Geralt had to blink a few times to get her tousled face into focus, “How are you doing?”

Another interesting turn of phrase. Of course, it could just be that the phrasing of the people in this region varied slightly from the people who lived further inland. But Essi never asked how he was feeling, physically. Always how he was doing. It made Geralt’s head ache; he barely had time to triage his exterior, let alone face whatever interior demons he had pushed down. 

“Well enough.”

Essi moved out of Geralt’s field of vision, over towards the fire, but he could tell she was rolling her eyes. He had woken fully yesterday for the first time since Essi had brought him back to Isa, and since then this had become something of a pattern between the two of them. She would ask how he was doing, he would answer the same as always, and Essi would proceed to systematically destroy any arguments he made as to his fineness.

“Any pain? Difficulty breathing? The healer said we should be careful to keep an eye on your breathing as you get better. Apparently spending a long time in bed can cause problems if you’re already ill.”

Geralt shrugged as much as his injured muscles would allow. It was hard to draw breath, he would give her that. His lungs rattled harshly, and his body, already exhausted from days of convulsive coughing, gave weak, rattling hacks. It made him feel pathetic. He didn’t want to cause her any more trouble. The sooner he could be up and out of this town, the better for everyone.

“It’s hard to breathe. I’m tired. And my side aches.”

Essi nodded as though that was what she had expected, and proceeded to drag a stool across the floor. Geralt winced at the sound and Essi grimaced and picked it up, carrying it the rest of the distance. 

“Sorry. I keep forgetting about your sensitive hearing. This is all a bit odd for me, you know.”

Geralt shrugged again, mentally steeling himself for the pain he knew was coming when Essi brought a wooden bowl full of water next to the bed as well. Talking tired him greatly, but he liked listening to Essi’s voice. She was full of wonder. Sometimes she would ask him questions about the inland cities, the great courts. But mostly she talked about her own dreams, sensing that answering her questions tired Geralt greatly. She talked about Oxenfurt, about going there and studying the Liberal Arts, of slinging her lute over her shoulder and never looking back. It reminded him very much of himself after his Trials. Brimming with anticipation, ready to set out on the Path. Ready to be someone the world needed. He sincerely hoped her path would turn out differently than his own had. 

Essi was delicately brushing at the bandages that covered Geralt’s side with warm water, trying to loosen them. They were crusted over with blood, but from what Geralt could see there was no pus or fluid. No infection, then. Some mercy, in the middle of the storm.

“You don’t have to do that,” he said shortly, trying to get it all out between rasping breaths, “Just rip them off. It’ll take less time. I know you’re probably busy downstairs, with the storm outside.”

“That will hurt you. I’m not doing that to you.” As always, Essi was indignant and determined to a fault.

“I’m a Witcher. I won’t feel it.”

There was a long, whistling exhalation which Geralt identified as coming from Essi’s nose, even though he was staring fixedly at the ceiling, not meeting her piercing blue eyes. 

“I’ve tended your wounds. I’ve seen the way you flinch in pain, even when you’re unconscious. I know the coughing makes you hurt, and that pulling off the bandages all at once will only make it worse. You Witchers aren’t anything special, at least not in the area of hiding your pain. You’re just stubborn men. And you’re not the first stubborn man I’ve helped.”

Not for the first time over the last few days, Geralt realized he was wasting his breath. Essi was unfortunately formidable. No amount of convincing on his part would make her see that it would be best for everyone if she stopped tending him and let him go. Besides, talking took too much effort, and the wounds in his side burned, despite Essi’s best attempts to be gentle. She was peeling back the soaking bandages now, depositing them in the bowl with wet plopping noises.

“I’ll wrap this again, and then I think it would be good for you to get up for a bit. I sent my brother to see the healer again yesterday, and she said it would be best for your lungs if you got up and moved, if you can. Something about not letting the fluid settle. In any case, you’re probably aching to be up again anyways.”

Truthfully, Geralt wanted nothing more than to close his eyes again and fall asleep. Essi had helped him sit up a bit, leaning against her, to remove the bandages wrapped around his chest, and it made him pant and his head spin. But asking to stay in bed was not something a Witcher did. Perhaps he could convince her he was well enough to leave. It did not take a good deal of mental energy to realize that his presence here was putting them all in danger from Devos’ men.

“That will be fine. Any news about Devos?”

Essi nodded, but did not elaborate, instead choosing that moment to pull the clean bandages tight around Geralt’s chest. Stars exploded in front of his eyes, red and blue, cracking and popping like the sparks from the fire. He gasped and panted, trying not to cough, knowing it would only make the pain worse. Gently, Essi eased him back down onto the cushions. She must have slipped another one down while he was leaning on her; it was easier on his lungs to regain their breath now that he was more upright. For a while, all Geralt could hear was the whooshing of his breath, in and out, as he tried to keep it from catching and sending him coughing again. When it calmed, he realized Essi was humming softly, rubbing a small, calloused hand across his chest. It felt good, gentle. Geralt closed his eyes and tried to breathe in time with the circular motions her hand was making, in time with the beat of whatever tune she was singing to herself.

“That’s…nice.” He finally panted out when his breath had evened out again. He chose to interrogate Essi about Devos when he was feeling a bit less like he might leap off the precipice into unconsciousness again.

Her blue eyes brightened considerably, her face, red with tiredness, shone a bit in the ruddy glow of the fire.

“You like it? It’s a new ballad, one I’ve been composing for my brother. It’s about an adventure we had as children on the cliffs, where he saved me from being attacked when we ventured into a colony of terns. They nearly pecked us both right off into the sea. I’m planning on playing it for him…before I go.”

Geralt looked up at her and wrinkled his brows.

“Go where?”

Essi stared down at her feet, and the colour and shine in her face disappeared, lashes brushing against cheeks that, on closer inspection, looked a bit tearstained. Not that Geralt was an expert on identifying such emotions. Tears were whipped out of little Witchers far too early on for him to remember what they looked like. 

“I’m leaving Isa. Ered and I talked about it, the day after we brought you back. He told me to go to Oxenfurt. That he feels like he’s trapping me here. That that’s not what I’m meant to do, living here and caring for him. He thinks I’m destined for something more.”

Now it was Geralt’s turn to avert his gaze uncomfortably. He didn’t have much experience dealing with sensitive matters; there was little that was off limits to discussion with his brothers at Kaer Morhen. But he had clearly entered uncharted territory here, and he was unsure of how to respond. His own experience with destiny was confusing and had dogged his footsteps from the moment of his birth.

“I’m…sorry. I shouldn’t have asked.” He mumbled, feeling his skin prickle a little with discomfort.

Essi shrugged, although the brightness had disappeared from her ruddy face. She kept her bright blue gaze on the floor, fiddling with the ends of the bandage that she had just tied off. 

“It’s alright. My brother and I have a…difficult relationship. But he’s fiercely loyal and protective, and he cares about me. It’s just hard for him to show it, and it often takes years for him to say how he really feels.”

Geralt wasn’t sure how to respond to that, so he settled for turning his head back into the pillow, which was pleasantly cool on his still-flushed skin. He could hear Essi rummaging around the room a bit, but he was tired and couldn’t particularly bring himself to care what she was doing. A moment later, though, she returned with a plate containing more freshly baked bread and a small glass pot of honey. Setting it on the bedside table, Essi motioned questioning with her head, and Geralt nodded. He appreciated her communication in ways other than speaking, especially when it came to delicate things. His arms trembled too much for him to sit up on his own, and she must have noticed the hot flush on his cheeks when she had offered to help him yesterday because she had not brought it up since then. 

Gently, Essi slid another few cushions behind Geralt’s back and gave him a moment to cough and let his aching head adjust to the shift in altitude. With trembling hands, he dipped the bread in the honey, trying not to show too outwardly how much he enjoyed it. It had been months, maybe longer, since he had tasted anything sweet.

“When you’re done, perhaps you want to go sit in a chair by the fire for a bit? It’ll help to warm you, and be good for your lungs.”

Despite the delicious sweetness of the honey, Geralt’s stomach was already rolling by the time she made this suggestion. He was unused to eating large quantities of anything since Blaviken, and his injuries made even the smallest bits of food turn his stomach. He pushed the plate with its remaining bread towards her, hoping she would share. Not many people would share with him these days, afraid of whatever infectious Witcher ailments he was rumoured to carry. But it would be a shame for the good food to go to waste. He could barely contain a happy sigh when she stuffed the rest of the bread and honey into her mouth without a second thought, cheeks puffing up humorously. 

“Alright.” He said, not bothering to keep his syllables from slurring sloppily into one another. If he had been left to his own devices, he would have gladly sunk into the pillows and slept for a week. But Essi was persistent. Still chewing laboriously, she slipped into the bed on his good side, swinging his trembling arm over her shoulder.

“Can you support yourself a bit? It’s alright if not, I’ll just need to call my brother up. I’m too small to carry you all the way over there on my own.”

Geralt considered. On one hand, he would have liked to stand on his own, at least partially. He could think of no better way to show Essi that he was ready to leave, to get out of Isa and stop presenting danger to the only people who had shown him real kindness since Blaviken. On the other hand, his hands and arms were trembling from the effort of eating the bread, and he hadn’t been out of bed since he had been injured. Not to mention that there was still a healing gash in his leg. Perhaps standing could wait until tonight. Since Essi had offered. He shook his head, feeling a bit shamefaced, but Essi just smiled, seeming relieved.

“I thought as much. I’ll be back.”

She stood with careful, graceful movements and slipped out the door. Geralt sank back into the cushions and allowed himself to drift, listening to the soft sounds drifting up through the floorboards. Men laughing, horses trotting through the cobbled streets outside. The city was beginning to awaken, and here he was, so exhausted from being awake for less than half an hour. Part of him briefly ached for a normal life. Most of these men had never awoken full of pain, spurned and judged for simply trying to choose the lesser evil. It would be nice, he thought. Simpler. But his brain quickly squashed down any of those dangerous notions. He was a Witcher, and Witchers were made for the life he was living. Made to be hated so people could live in peace. To make the hard choices no one else could make. 

Geralt was unsure how long he drifted, but at some point his eyes slipped shut, and he barely registered two sets of footsteps ascending the creaky stairs. When the door opened, he nearly shot upright before stopping himself with a grimace, remembering the sliced and strained intercostal muscles. It was mildly alarming how close they had managed to get before he had registered anything was approaching. He would need to improve his reflexes before taking on another contract.

It had been a while since Geralt had seen Ered; the man had not been in since he had woken. Now, shadowed in the light of the hall, his tired mind noted the shocking resemblance between the two siblings, and also the marked differences. They were both built small, like birds, and they had the same pale features. But where Essi’s face was bright like her eyes, polished and new like a freshly cut gem, Ered’s was aged. There were lines there that did not belong in a face so young, and his eyes were tired and wary. They looked like those of a hunted wolf, always on the lookout, always ready to spring. Geralt recognized the look well. He also noted that while Essi entered the room easily, stepping over the threshold with a forward momentum speaking to a job that needed completing, Ered hesitated, sizing up the situation in a military fashion. There was hesitation in his eyes. Essi seemed to realize this would happen; she turned and extended a hand to him, pulling him over the threshold. Ered stumbled a bit, and then came to stand rigidly next to her, looking everywhere in the room except at Geralt. His sister smiled at Geralt brightly — perhaps she was compensating for his lack of emotion? Geralt couldn’t bring himself to particularly care. It would be nice to be warm by the fire, and the winged armchair looked comfortable. That was about as far as his thinking capability went at the moment.

Almost shyly, Ered helped his sister, slipping under Geralt’s armchair on his bad side. The Witcher was still aware enough to be surprised at his gentleness. Ered was clearly a military man, and Geralt’s experience of soldiers was that they were not usually gentle with their wounded. But Ered had gentle hands, and he kept himself far away from the healing slices in Geralt’s side. Although, he kept himself as far away from the Witcher as possible, only making contact when absolutely necessary. His breathing and heart rate had increased significantly since entering the room, and there was tension between the siblings. Neither said a word.

When the two of them had managed to get Geralt standing (with no small amount of effort on Essi’s part, and no small amount of grunting through the fiery bursts of pain on Geralt’s). Ered had placed a bracing hand on Geralt’s shoulder, and the Witcher noted that he was breathing slowly, measured to match Geralt’s own efforts to slow his gasping breaths. Together, they limped over to the winged armchair by the merrily crackling fire, and Essi slipped out from under Geralt’s arm while Ered eased him down. Geralt sank back with a sigh, revelling in the warmth he felt when Essi wrapped a blanket around his shoulders. His head ached, and he leaned it exhaustedly against one of the wings of the chair. Vaguely, he could hear someone making a hasty exit, and then the sound of a stick stirring about in the fire. He cracked an eye, seeing Essi crouched in front of the embers. She looked up, seeming to sense she was being watched. The firelight caught her sharp features, leaving her half veiled in shadow.

“Better?” She asked simply, giving him a look that threatened violence if he was not honest.

Geralt shrugged, unsure of how to respond. In Kaer Morhen, the answer to such questions was always “yes”, even if you were on your last legs. Here, however, he was out of his depth. He had never answered anything other than an affirmative to such a question. He wasn’t even sure if he was able to take stock of his injuries in a way that led to a different answer. After all, he was alive.

“I’m sorry for Ered,” Essi changed the subject, turning back towards the fire and piling on some bigger logs, “He fought against Nilfgaard in the last uprising, and he came back a changed man. He doesn’t do well with injuries.”

Geralt nodded his acknowledgment, but truth be told he was too tired, and Ered was not the first man he had encountered to suffer from such an affliction. Just because the body came back from war relatively unbroken, did not mean that the mind followed suit. He rested his head against the edge of the chair, feeling relieved he had gotten up. Essi had been right, it was significantly easier to breathe. The weight that had taken up permanent residence on his chest was eased a bit. However, sitting did nothing for his stitches, which pulled and ached in time with his thudding heart, which was still a bit too fast for comfort. And he was exhausted. Completely and utterly. Embarrassingly, in fact. Vesemir would have given him a good slap for getting himself in such a state that being half-dragged to a chair was too much exertion. Painfully, Geralt adjusted his position, stretching out his aching leg in front of the fire.

“Shall I read to you?” Essi asked at some length, looking up from where she had taken up residence, cross-legged, by the fire.

Geralt, who had been nearly asleep, jerked upright with a wheeze of surprise. It had been a long time since anyone offered such a thing. Before the Trials, he and some of the other boys had gone to the library to read the bestiary together. But they were all dead now, save Eskel. He cleared his throat uncomfortably, and nodded.

Essi brightened a bit and fetched a fat volume from the bedside table. Briefly, Geralt wondered if she had been reading to him while he was delirious with fever. He had vague memories of a voice piercing through the nightmarish haze.

“This is one of my favourites. An epic, the story of Svala Jonsdottir of Ard Skellige. She was an enchantress, employed to guard the ships coming and going from the Western Lands and Cintra. And the only chronicled person to ever reach the Western Lands and come home alive, although she died not long after; telling the story of what she experienced on her deathbed. Of a place ridden with plague and pestilence, much similar to our own. And of a sword, whose owner was said to be the bringer of salvation and peace. I’m not sure it’s a reliable account, but a beautiful story all the same. I’d like to write a ballad about it someday.”

Geralt smiled vaguely, feeling the heat of the fever creeping back up under his skin again. He felt drunken and exhausted, but he had never heard this story before. Perhaps unsurprising, since Witchers were not much for poetry. He watched, fascinated, as Essi allowed the beautiful tome to fall open on her lap, listened as her calloused hands rasped over the paper, which she caressed like an old friend. She breathed deeply, and although Geralt didn’t trust his lungs to do the same without coughing at the moment, he could imagine the smell of an ancient text, one he had smelled so frequently during his time before the Trials at Kaer Morhen.

When Essi began reading, Geralt curled in on himself a bit under the blanket. His side and leg ached, and there was a certain melodious quality to Essi’s voice that made him incredibly tired. She read the epic the way he supposed it was meant to be read; a lilting, cadential melody that he could never have hoped to replicate. About a page in, she closed her eyes, and the corners of her small mouth turned up in a smile, exposing an incisor that had grown in sideways, making her look a bit wolfish. But there was a gift to the way she spoke, the way she wove the tale with the movements of her hand, speaking the stanzas alongside the rhythm Geralt could hear from her heart.

He must have fallen asleep like that, because when he awoke sore and cramped, Essi was gone and the fire was dying. By the light filtering in through the dirty window, the rain had abated and it was about midday, far too hot even for the embers of a fire. And still, Geralt was cold. Still fevered, he thought, and ill. His face was pinched with the discomfort of his wounds, and, unbothered by the situation he found himself in, he surrendered to the exhaustion and pain and began drifting off again. There were sounds coming from downstairs. Faraway and indistinct, more a general cadence of angry voices than any one particular sound. However, as Geralt tried to get back to sleep the sounds became elevated, each high-pitched punctuation causing him to jolt. This was often the way he experienced noise when he was trying to rest, but he found it particularly frustrating now. The fever was on the verge of breaking, he could feel it pounding under his skin and had hoped to sleep off the last few hours of fevered delirium in peace. 

Finally, after nearly half an hour of wakefulness — eyes sliding shut and then jerking open again abruptly at the voices, Geralt gave up. He did not feel even remotely restored, but there was no point in continuing to fight a losing battle. Jerking his head upright, he gritted his teeth and pressed firmly and efficiently on the wounds in his side, ripping himself back to a fully conscious state even as he doubled over and gasped at the fiery pain. An effective strategy, to be sure, but not one that he found even remotely pleasant. He leaned forwards as far as the aching wounds in his side would allow, resting his elbows on his knees and trying to control the choppy, stuttering feeling of his breathing.

As he tried to regain some control over himself, Geralt was vaguely aware that the voices downstairs were getting louder. One of them was easily recognizable as the voice of Essi’s brother, Ered. In his limited interactions with the man, Geralt had never heard him speak very much, but his voice had the same melodious quality as that of his sister and father. Taking shallow breaths, Geralt allowed his head to dip forwards, trying not to cough and wondering what could be going on downstairs that was causing such a racket. He just wanted some damn sleep, which was humiliating enough in and of itself. A man who had spent the past few days doing nothing more than sleeping and eating broth should not need to rest more, and a Witcher even less so. 

Geralt was close to drifting into an uneasy meditative state when his head suddenly snapped up, causing some very sore coughs to rip through him. He felt something give in his throat, and wouldn’t be at all surprised if he opened his mouth to find his voice totally gone. However, this was not chief amongst his concerns at the moment. From down below, the angry voices had reached a new crescendo, and there was the distinct sound of weapons being unsheathed. But what sent Geralt’s heart pounding in his chest was one statement, a sentiment which stood out from the rest and caught his attention straight away. 

“That mutant scum directly disobeyed the alderman,” a deep baritone voice was snarling, “Witchers bring nothing but trouble. We got lucky he didn’t drive all the traders out of Isa. But now it’s time for him to go, and all you traitors with him. Preferably at the end of the rope, although I’m not adverse to using a sword either. Devos has no room in his city for people who disobey his commands. Particularly not men too weak to go serve their country or city in the wars to come. We kill him here, or you all die.”

Geralt tried to stand, but his head was spinning with dizziness and he barely made it past a half-crouched position before he had to grip the chair, panting. He tried to swallow back his coughs and the distinct feeling of panic rolling in his gut. This was how it had happened at Blaviken. This was how they had driven him away, how he had barely escaped with his life. And there, he had been fully well, fully able to fight. Here, there was no way for him to defend himself. His silver and steel swords were leaning against the wall by the hearth, but Geralt severely doubted his ability to lift them at the moment, let alone fight. The only way he was getting out of here if a fight broke out was with help. And that was not something he couldn’t accept. He couldn’t endanger peoples’ lives again.

There was also a wickedly curved dagger, a gift from Eskel, leaning against the wall by Geralt’s swords. Normally, he kept the dagger strapped to his chest, by his heart. It was one of the few sentimentalities he allowed himself, a final memory of a goodbye shared before they set out on the Path. He was loathe to use it now, but he had to get out. He was unsure if anyone here would fight to try to protect him if the men downstairs attacked. If he had been in Essi or Ered’s position, he certainly wouldn’t. One less mutant on the Earth. Even though Essi had said she didn’t believe he was a monster, Geralt didn’t want to test that, and wanted even less to place either of them in danger. He was on his own. The way he deserved to be.

Limping over to his swords, one hand clenched tightly around his wounded side, Geralt drew the dagger. He was wearing light pants that did not belong to him; his last pair had been destroyed in the fight with the witches, and a thin cotton shirt. Heading out into the cold coastal air now would almost certainly have adverse effects on his already weakened lungs. But he had no other option. There was no one here who would help him.

He was so focused he only dimly registered that there were now sounds of steel clashing downstairs. Why was there any reason to fight, he wondered? Better to just give him up. Perhaps they were fighting for the right to kill him and sell his various parts.

Geralt wrenched open the window with a trembling hand, trying to hold back his coughs as he hauled his swords over and dropped them out, wincing at the dull clang as they hit the cobbles below. He took a bracing breath. His legs were trembling under the weight of holding his body up, and almost without realizing it Geralt found himself sinking down against the wall next to the window. He was so damnably weak, and his side was pulsing with pain. He hit the floor with a thump, head smacking back against the wall as whatever energy had remained to him fled. There was a small part of his mind screaming at him, noting the increased volume of the fighting downstairs and telling him to run, to get out, to flee, but he no longer had the energy to listen. The brownish hues of the room were bleeding together, and Geralt could feel himself listing sideways against the wall. His arms were too weak to steady him, and Eskel’s dagger fell from his limp grip even as footsteps thundered up the stairs. Geralt knew he was close to losing consciousness. He was too weak, too slow. And slow Witchers always met their end sooner rather than later. He closed his eyes, exhausted and shivering, feeling the fever rearing its ugly head under his skin again. The footsteps approached the door, and it burst open so hard that Geralt started weakly, groaning as his stitches pulled. He didn’t bother looking up. There was no chance that Essi and Ered had chosen to defend him. Not when their lives and ability to live in peace hung in the balance.

“Fucking hell.” A voice stated, trembling a bit but trying to put on a brave face. Perhaps whoever had come to kill him had never taken a life before. Geralt remembered that feeling. The feeling of becoming a monster, of becoming a man who took lives. If he had been more coherent, he would have pitied the poor boy. But he just lay, listing sideways, trembling and shaking, trying to keep from groaning at the renewed pain from the wounds in his side. The footsteps approached. And a small, feminine hand clasped around his knee.

Barely conscious, Geralt still felt a small pang of hurt. Of all the people to come upstairs to end his life, he had not expected it to be Essi. He knew it was unfair to expect her to be something more, someone who would see past prejudice. But he had hoped, at least, that she would not be the one to turn on him first. It was too much like Renfri. Echoes of Blaviken filled Geralt’s mind, and he shook even more, from fever or emotional pain he was unsure.

“You stupid bastard,” Essi grumbled, “Why the fuck did you get up? I was hoping to be able to get you out of here without having to shove you down the back stairs.”

Geralt looked up, trying to focus in on one of the two Essis that swam in front of his blurry vision. Gods, he just wanted to rest.

“Come on. We can talk about this later, when you’re safe. Those bastards downstairs aren’t leaving without a fight.”

This caught Geralt’s attention. He had expected Essi to draw a knife and slit his throat, or perhaps do it with his own knife which had fallen from his listless hand. But here she was, manhandling herself under his good arm, grunting with the effort of lifting him, and talking about safety. When Geralt’s vision blacked out, he wasn’t sure if it was from surprise or pain as he felt several stitches rip in his side. He groaned.

“I’m so sorry,” Essi whispered, “We tried to keep them away, tried to keep this from happening. And now I’m just causing you more pain from trying to help you. I promise, when this is done, we’ll get you somewhere comfortable where you can heal and rest. We’ll take care of you, Ered and I.”

Geralt was too confused and in too much pain to really make heads or tails of this statement. All he knew was that he was still alive, when he had very much expected not to be. That, and Essi was shaking under his weight as she tried to drag his body towards the stairs. His toes scratched on the floor, And Geralt realized for the first time that he was not wearing boots. Not exactly an auspicious start to whatever journey to safety Essi was taking him on. The ringing sounds of steel clashing against steel hurt Geralt’s head, and they were getting louder.

“Come on, we’ll get you out the back way. They’re all so consumed with trying to kill each other they probably won’t notice if we slip through. And if they do, I’m not completely useless with a blade.”

Geralt saw Essi fingering a small knife that was hidden on a sheath up her sleeve. 

“‘M sorry,” he mumbled, “You could…just give me up. Not like I’m worth anything.”

“For the sake of all things holy, Geralt, look at you. I don’t think you could keep yourself standing if it wasn’t for me, and I’m certainly not about to betray you to that bastard Devos. You saved us, the least you deserve is someone who’s willing to do the same for you. Don’t worry, Ered can hold them off. We’ll get somewhere safe.”

“…Why?” Geralt was more unconscious than awake now, but he needed to know.

“Because despite all your attempts to convince us otherwise, you’re a good man, Geralt of Rivia. You’re a good man who’s been dealt a shit hand. You’re not a Butcher. Gods, you can’t even be brought to kill people after they insult you to your face, and you took on a dangerous contract when you were already half dead to help a group of people you knew wouldn’t give you any thanks. You’ve grown on me, Witcher. I care for you. And people don’t leave those they care about behind to die.”

The Witcher mulled this over as Essi half dragged, half carried him down the back stairs of the inn. The hall was claustrophobic, and there were a couple times when Essi had to duck them both down to keep their hair from being set alight by the candles dripping in their holders on the wall. Geralt felt bemused. Perhaps if he had been more lucid he would have been surprised, even shocked. No one cared for Witchers except other Witchers. Especially not the ones who murdered innocent people in town squares.

So ensconced was he in piecing together what Essi had said, Geralt barely noticed when they reached the bottom of the stairs and slipped through a narrow door. He might not have been aware of it at all — he discovered his eyes had somehow slipped shut. However, there was a whistle of hot air inches from his face, followed by a violent curse from Essi, And Geralt jerked his head up.

The inn was in disarray. Tables that had been lined up and neatly wiped several days before were pushed haphazardly to the sides of the room, crowded up against the windows like so many spectators to the violence. The floor was slick with split ale, and what looked like blood. Geralt could smell the iron tinge of it in the air, and there were several bodies flopped haphazardly on the floor or against the bar from which various fluids were oozing sluggishly. Geralt’s stomach was already feeling particularly sensitive from several days of illness, and he had to swallow convulsively a few times to keep himself from vomiting. 

In the midst of the carnage, there were four men still standing. Geralt could only recognize Ered; his bright blonde hair stood out even in his hazy vision. He seemed to be facing two of the men, fending off one with a long sword, and the other with a dagger. The fourth man was pulling himself up against one of the tables shakily, eyes crossed, drawing a wicked looking knife from in his boot. He locked eyes with Geralt and Essi.

Geralt felt the whistle of air as the knife parted with the man’s hand. Heard Essi’s strangled cry as she tried to control their fall, tried to get them both out of the knife’s path. Geralt had been leaning back against the wall, and wasn’t able to match her controlled fall, didn’t have the reflexes or the wherewithal to dodge the knife flying towards him. Essi grabbed his hand, tried to yank him down, but he couldn’t move fast enough, not with the torn stitches in his side and the way his head was swimming. He stared down the knife, twisting end over end towards him. A Witcher should be able to look death in the eyes.

Suddenly, there was a dull thud, and the knife stopped falling. Stopped twisting. Lodged. Geralt couldn’t see well enough to make out how it had been stopped, just that it was no longer coming towards him. And then he heard Essi’s scream.

Blonde hair flying, she flew across the room, knife out of its sheath before she was halfway there. Geralt watched, detached, as the tiny knife, delicate and small just like the woman who wielded it, plunged over and over into the chest of the man who had thrown the dagger. There was no sound. Just silence, and the wet squelch of blood and viscera, until Essi finally looked up, hair and face reddened and splattered with blood. Clean tracks cut through the blood on her face where the tears had fallen, and she looked back at Geralt with hopelessness in her eyes.

“Ered?” She whispered weakly. But she already knew there would be no answer. Ered had died before he hit the ground, head nearly severed from his neck by the force of the dagger. Blood pooled at his lips and in his pale hair, and both hands were clasped around his sword, with which he had used to slash both of the other men across the chests in his final moment. The three of them lay tangled, a confused knot of bodies and blood and entangled limbs. Geralt could hear the blood that had leaked through the wooden floorboards hitting the floor of the cellar below. Blood that hadn’t been spilled to save Essi. She had been well out of the way of the knife. No, this blood had been spilled to save him. Ered had taken the knife for him.

Geralt trembled; he could feel hot blood soaking through his shirt from where the stitches had ripped, and he felt very ill. His eyes itched and ached strangely, in a way he had not felt since his Trials. But the room was blurring together, the sounds and smells of carnage overwhelming him. He could smell Essi’s tears, her grief, he could smell the blood shed for him.

The pain finally overwhelmed him. The world tunnelled, already blurred shapes congealing together in a great bloody mass. And then Geralt was gone.

\----

It was nearly a week later when Geralt finally felt well enough to travel. After the fight at the inn, he and Essi had fled to the home of the fisherman, Desar, who had taken him to see Devos about the contract in the first place. The man’s wife had re-stitched the wounds in Geralt’s side, and she and Essi had spent an additional two days nursing his fever and trying to keep him comfortable while he overcame the remaining illness in his lungs. The woman, whose name was Tilla, had told him he was lucky to be alive. That the infection had spread deep into his lungs, and his breathing had been in dire straits. And now, as he sat resting a still aching side by the fire, Geralt reflected that, for the first time since he had gone to Kaer Morhen, people outside the keep had shown him real kindness. Essi and Tilla and Desar, who had risked their lives and their homes to help him heal. And Ered, who had died to protect a Witcher he barely knew.

Since Ered’s death, Essi had been silent. She did not cry, not after that first day when she had sat in front of Tilla’s hearth covered in the blood of her brother’s killer, weeping. Now, she was quiet, reserved, but there was a spark in her the last few days that Geralt had not seen since he had known her. Finally, she approached him.

“You’re nearly healed,” she began hesitantly, and Geralt noticed the lute slung over her back, which he had not seen since his first night in Isa, “So I was wondering if, perhaps, if you’re ready, I could set off for Oxenfurt? If you’re sure you’ll be alright here, that is. Desar and Tilla will help you until you’re ready to leave.”

She sounded almost desperate, like she needed to convince him that this was the right choice. Geralt got the sense that she needed permission to leave, but not from him.

“There’s nothing holding you here anymore,” he grunted, stretching a bit in the chair he had pulled close to the fire, rolling the ankle on his injured leg, which was propped up on a stool to ease the dull ache that still pounded there, “But you don’t need to go alone. I’m ready to travel again, I need to get out of this damned town and back on the Path again.”

Essi’s visible blue eye widened. She had had to cut off a goodly amount of her hair at the front — it had been too stained with blood to wash out. The result was that it fell in an uneven fringe over one of her striking blue eyes, leaving her peering out through the remaining one. Geralt, in one of his delirious moments when the fever had been breaking, had told her it suited her. She had said it was a way for her to remember what she was. What she had done.

“What do you mean?” She asked cautiously, eye glistening a bit.

Geralt took a deep breath. He was still ill, and if anyone other than Essi ever found out about this conversation that would be the excuse he would plead. Ill, still recovering from a life-threatening fever. Because normally he would never have laid himself bare in such a way. He stretched, wincing as the stitches pulled a bit, embedded as they were in his healing skin. His breath still rattled a bit in his chest. 

“You took me in,” he started, voice barely more than a growling whisper (he had only recently regained his voice at all), “You knew who I was from the moment you laid eyes on me and found out I was a Witcher. But I never smelled fear on you, not even mistrust. And when I was injured, you took me in and cared for me, even though you put your life and home at risk. Your brother died saving me, even though he must have known too. You both knew I was worth more dead than alive. That I was a Butcher. And you took me in anyways. And I’ve…come to care for you. It’s the least I can do to see you to Oxenfurt. After all, that was what Ered wanted. I remember what you told me he said to you.”

Geralt finished this all in a rush, heart pounding uncomfortably in his ears. Essi was staring at him, and for the first time since Ered had died there were tears streaming down her face. Her fringe was wet with them.

“You know, Ered probably could have thought of no better way to die,” Essi sniffed, brushing some tears off her small face, “than by saving another soldier. He failed once, in the war. With our brother, Elien. Ered was working in the healing tent, when they brought Elien in. After, the soldiers said he worked for nigh on two days trying to save him. One even told me Ered kept stitching his wounds after he had died, like it could bring him back. Ered blamed himself for Elien’s death. He would have died to save him, but he couldn’t. He died saving another soldier instead.”

They sat in silence for a long time after that, Essi staring into the fire as tears dripped down her nose and chin, splattering onto her blue dress, Geralt sitting next to her until eventually the overwhelming feeling of vulnerability dissipated and he dozed off, head leaned back on the armchair. At length, Essi woke him, her face reddened and salty.

“I’ll pack your things,” she stated simply, “You’re still weak.”

She moved about, fitting things together with the skill and efficiency befitting the sister of two soldiers. After a few trips out to Roach, she entered the hut, and bid Tilla a sweet farewell. Then, she helped Geralt up, and together they limped outside. Roach nickered softly, and Geralt saw with a rush of relief that his swords had been recovered and placed on her back.

“We’ll leave them there for now,” Essi said when she saw him eyeing them, “To save your back. Wait until those stitches come out before you do any fighting or carrying.”

Geralt nodded, and mounted up with a bit less grace than normal, offering Essi a hand to sit behind him, the other wrapped around his still sore ribs. But Essi smiled and shook her head.

“A bard walks from town to town, playing for those who are pleased to listen. Best get used to it now.”

Geralt nodded, having expected nothing less. He took Eskel’s knife from his pack and sheathed it in his belt and urged Roach into a walk. Essi followed behind, humming softly to herself as she strummed her lute. As they left the thundering surf and the crying seagulls behind them, Geralt recognized the tune as the ballad she had meant to sing for Ered before their parting.

**Author's Note:**

> Comments and kudos are my lifeblood! Please let me know what you thought, and come hang out with me on Tumblr at aloe-casia for more eclectic content and musings.


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